Tourists From the City

Having disposed of lunchbags out the windwings,
having watered the shoulder at the wigwags,
skidding at last on gravel by the gas pumps,
we saw the dancers forming by the wigwam.

Choosing to fill the bill, we talked of wampum,
hogans, and wickiups, and bought a program.

After their heavy labor for the plowman,
the dancers stood and smoked. We bought our women
cloth of the herdsman, and the huntsman’s weapon.

Later we stooped our way (we had that power)
under the corrugated iron and paper
into the house of wrinkles, to the powwow,

and made our peace, passing the bright wrapper
first, and the cupped flame. Later it was proper
to introduce our wives, who talked of supper.

Laughing, the young garageman offered totems
fresh from their shipping crates, and rifled the tom-toms.

Now back it is, in Thunderbird and Swept-wing,
hearing in the rain the old men whispering,
feeling this blood, this old man strange to weeping
that sits within our hearts, his brown face warping.