by Joy Harjo

Your eyes peered out from the wreck
Of a three-day drunk.
Your eyes say good man, works with hands,
Knows how to dance, believes in the good of people,
And wants a chance.
We talked about relationships, jobs and all the casino winners
In your family: everyone but you.
Ayyy itʻs my turn now. 
Your eyes laughed and kicked back
The afternoon sun.
You asked me to let you off near an overpass, north of town.
A creek ran parallel to the highway.
There were trees bending down
To cup the winds. 
When I turned back to look you were walking west.
Work shoes and tools over your shoulder
in your broken bag.
A little rain began to fall
From sparse, lucky clouds.
Did you find a place to sleep, 
And something to give your sustenance
for the long night?
Your eyes peer
Through the dark as you sing
A traveling song:
One day I will be rich.
One day I will have horses enough
To marry you with.