Poetry by Leah Mueller

                ​Barbara Brannon CC



​Nothing Irish about Shamrock, Texas

Home of the Blarney Inn. Elderly
Indian couple takes my cash, 
hands over the room key. Each night,

they fall asleep on mattresses 
behind the desk, then rise early 
to illuminate the welcome sign. 

Outside, a red cowboy boot stands 
against the highway, propped
beside an abandoned steakhouse.

Hard to believe there’s no market 
for steak in the panhandle, since
the region’s name implies frying 
cheap meat in oceans of grease. 

The overhead sign retains its garishness, 
conjuring cheerful images of blood. 

Cows now long digested, 
neighbors forced indoors,
awkwardly broiling their own burgers.

But oh, the boot, its outlines bold
against the weeds, recalls scores of meals:
Texas families, who demanded countless 

glasses of water, left dollar tips,
and returned to right-wing television.

Not a shamrock in sight. 
Hope closed down,
decommissioned like the highway.

Go ahead, try your luck.
Comb the brush for that mutant clover.
Examine the boot heel’s shadow.
Scan the edge of the parking lot.

Like a solitary boot, 
I stand proud and ridiculous. 
Closed to customers, yet upright,
waiting for new ones to arrive


​

Leah Mueller is an indie writer and spoken word performer from Bisbee, Arizona.  She is the author of nine prose and poetry books, published by numerous small presses. Her latest chapbook, "Land of Eternal Thirst" (Dumpster Fire Press) was released in 2021.  Leah’s work appears in Rattle, Midway Journal, Citron Review, The Spectacle, Miracle Monocle, Outlook Springs, Atticus Review, Your Impossible Voice, and elsewhere. Visit her website at www.leahmueller.org.

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