Autumn In Kentucky Poem by Francis Poole

At sunset
Old Shawneetown Main Street
a stripe of russet war paint,
a burning spear running
neck and neck with the river.
All of the Indians are either asleep
or bent over
the one pool table in
the Broken Arrow saloon.
Along the clay shore
a thin white dog sniffs a black spot
and trots on.
Twilight melts into
the hard, stubbled fields
glazing the old bones.
Tonight's blistering cold
turning the icicle points
of starlight into
sharp little teeth.
Upstream no canoe wake
no campfires, no
corn beer songs.
Just the moon,
a sliver of moon
the river tries to spit
into the wind.