On Discovering That Trail Creek Tavern Became a Museum

On Discovering That Trail Creek Tavern Became a Museum

They can’t bring it back again from time.
Not one beer left. The outside the same,
Except for the museum sign and a planter
Filled with mountain flowers. Neighbors
Complained for years, as bikers, fishers,
Loggers and n’er-do-wells whooped it up
Like wild coyotes in heat. It was bound to
Happen.

Where will the salmon drifters go now
To wash away the truth of the river,
to swap hardship over Budweisers
with rock hard logging crews?
And when truckers pass by again
Will some recall the voices echoing
Large fish and wild women caught
In the same net, or hear yarns of the
“Great Canyonville Fire” or the twang
of Friday night country guitars-perhaps
they'll hide in daydreams.

Nothing fades slowly as a memory.
The worn pool table, balls clacking
Over the din of the dusty bar--slippery
Sawdust floors--frothy beers--lonely
Women--these linger in the log façade
of the new museum.
Soon the river will wend its way
downstream to wash away the remnants.