Paul Bergstraesser

Ron Taco

You’d think he’d be vaguely something

but Ron Taco wasn’t vaguely anything.

He was just Ron Taco, everything anatomically

correct including our neighborhood.

The outtakes: a carport attached to his house,

a Corvette Stingray, bellbottoms that today

people write songs about and an above-ground

pool where the rule was jean shorts, no tops.

You’d think Ron Taco was only a summer creature

and you’d be right. Rumors of rabbits dangling

by their feet for backyard archery, 100 steps

removed from the lightning bugs pressed to our

earlobes as nighttime jewelry. But everything is

rumor, from the brothers who’d kiss just about

anything to Ron Taco as an Olympian, dying in a

shootout with police, mail ordering a bride to

poems as more than placeholders, as more than

markers for memory which writhes and writhes,

spinning and twitching at the end of a rope.

Paul Bergstraesser was awarded an NEA Literature Fellowship in 2012. In addition, he has had fiction published in Another Chicago Magazine, The Barcelona Review, Other Voices, The Portland Review, Stone's Throw, and Thin Air. My nonfiction has been published in Sojourn. At present, I teach creative writing and literature at University of Wyoming.

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