Maybe it’s the Hawaiian shirt that does it,
jungle flowers the cowboy buys during a pit stop
for his buddy Ratso, who has shit himself
on the bus ride south after the long, cold winter
they barely survived, using coats for blankets,
eating dinner from tin cans cooked over candles,
every match in the matchbook a stab at hope.
That Hawaiian shirt is the first thing
Ratso’s owned that he hasn’t stolen. A gift.
