This is a poem that, takes place around Tucson.
Some of you may have visited this particular bar
and restaurant, it's called Robie's, it's out
on Spanish Trail.
I walked in there one night after I'd been hunting all day
and had a lot of beer.
And it's a very strange place because the entire ceiling
is covered with people's hats that are nailed to the ceiling.
All kinds of hats, baseball hats, cowboy hats, helmets.
So the title of this poem is "Walking into Kentucky Robie's
Drunk."
In here our hats are nailed to the ceiling, trophies
telling the end of events.
Even our old cowboy suits and mittens are hung near
sticks we played polo with on horses so short
our feet dragged.
The sign out front tells the world Robie's serial number,
and the helmeted dog who guards it all has a single pup.
She's mean, touchy about the whole thing.
Has her own memories.
But we are pleased at what Robie keeps for us.
And his 19 rifles all for show, though dusty,
prove we are visiting home.