Bill Guy

roy bentley

had this ’73 Camaro which we piled into to get buzzed.
We’d driven to the chow hall. Eaten like we were young

and starving. We had omelets with everything after shots
and beers and Quaaludes. We were driving the two-lanes;

he was showing us what his 350 cubic-inch V-8 would do.
I was across from Bill as he downed a swig of something

clear then spewed forth into the windshield, redelivering
nineteen seventy-three as Nixon and Watergate and one

other untidiness. That spring, I had presented my hands
for someone I loved to throw up in. Why not recall that

as I remember Bill pulling over and throwing it in Park,
listening for sounds Summer makes and keeps making,

eloquent except for the guy who will not stop yakking
about America like the world is just the one country.


Roy Bentley, finalist for the Miller Williams prize for his book Walking with Eve in the Loved City, is the author of seven books of poetry; including, most recently, American Loneliness from Lost Horse Press, who is bringing out a new & selected in 2020. He has published poetry in december, The Southern Review, New Letters, Crazyhorse, Shenandoah, Blackbird, Prairie Schooner, and Rattle among others.