Ron Wallace Poems

Bukowski is inside-reading;
I leave him at my desk to wait
the dead of winter with whiskey and cigars,
and walk outside onto the cedar deck.
...

You can’t fence years in with wire
or build stone walls to hold them back.
They move like mavericks, rough hooves
across soft earth.
...

</>Keys on chains lie lost,
buried near the bottoms of drawers,
unused, abandoned;
keys that served hands
...

Outlaws in Winter Pass
(For Waylon Jennings)

Outlaws in winter pass the gate;
...

November winds lift Texas
up across the Red. All things green
are going gold,
and life dances death in swirling turns
...