His name was Silverado Bloom, I think,
and his laugh did all that and more.
He came and went in a Mormon minivan
that was more country than the boots on his feet,
or the drawl on his lips, or the gun on his hip.
We used to sit and smoke through Hebrew signs,
and rings would float like magic through is nose.
I can still smell his leather jacket,
and my eyes still taste the pineapples
on tropical shirts that bloomed through the middle of winter.
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