The Indian tonic
Smacks of dusty trails
Corn cobs,
Long weary miles
Of wavering wheat
Swallowed in two hard gulps
The product of years
Gestating
Waiting just for you
And they stare at you
Wet eyes unbelieving
Long faces struck with shock
The chief coughs
Into a yellow scarf
Worn thin with faded design
Stained with tears
At its center
Grim reminders of
Remembered pain
Then he takes his swig
Wincing slightly
He coughs again
Looking again at you
in disbelief
behind his eyes
he’s thinking
you are laughing
at him.
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