Cutbank, MT

"Don't take your kids to the Terrace Motel," said
the man at the Plaza, who didn't have room,
and the Super 8 boss who didn't like kids.

Our door at the Terrace was guarded by Duke,
a sleepy old dog that had nothing to prove--
he and Nkeesa, a door further down.

These ne'r-do-well doors of the Terrace Motel
had paintings of Tweety Bird, Ernie and Bert,
Bugs Bunny and Wily and--you name the rest:

the owner one day let his daughter range free
and cheer up the joint for Nkeesa and Duke
and anyone else closing doors on the place.

He told us "Nkeesa is Blackfoot for friend."
We pet her and left our kids sleeping inside,
then ventured to Main Street and down to the 'Den'

where tiny credentials lent drinks on the house--
ours just being strangers and paused passers-by
who wanted to burrow a night in this town.

Some players at pool sidled shots and themselves
and slid, when all done, to the dark to drink more;
my wife and I racked a new table of balls

and lanced through the fun of seventy-five cents
and wondered a little how little kids slept
(obeying the oldest and wisest, we hoped).

Stealthily, somebody put three quarters down
followed soon after by another three coins--
the promise of winners to claim table rule,

indigenous right to itinerant gains.
We learned that "Oki Nikskani" launched each game:
the greeting of Blackfeet that made us new friends,

"quite like the dog attending our kids," but this
was a sign to get back to base, the Terrace
in Cutbank--a beautiful dive to be inn.