Looking through the window,
there she was,
behind the bar,
tending to the locals.
She herself,
my friend,
had become a local.
I wondered
if she begrudged
Hiawatha Kansas
the local-ness
that it had ****** upon
her.
I decided
that it would be better
if I didn’t ask.
Because my own hometown
was still home;
still feeling like someplace
That could be,
maybe do better,
but would rather not.
Choosing instead
to smoke cigarettes,
drink ***** and Red Bull,
while waiting for tomorrow.
Tomorrow would always show up,
looking just a bit more hopeful than yesterday;
remaining less motivated than we’d anticipated
last night.
I drove 39 miles with a belly full of
ate-at-home food,
leaving the house in favor of the blues band
playing downtown.
After their set,
I lost interest,
seeking something beyond the proffered
Friday night loudness and parking-lot
Mexican food.
I decided to see my friend, Abigail.
39 miles of ink-black nothing,
speed-trap smallness,
a couple of Casey’s
with
their lights shut off;
pizza ovens and donut fryers
gone cold for the night.
Red’s Alehouse looks like
It could actually be a house.
(there’s not much to it.)
The Budweiser sign,
neon.
the OPEN sign,
flashing.
Peering,
entering;
she screams in delight.
we laugh.
I sit.
we talk.
She dutifully fills new glasses,
washes those abandoned.
Someone puts a twenty-dollar bill
in her tip jar.
It was a good night,
a fair adventure.
I drove home again in the ink of the Kansas night.
36 HWY,
through the same speed-trap towns,
those convenience stores still
locked tight.
It was fine,
there in the dark.
Neither hungry nor thirsty,
I was sated.
I’d met ****
Steve,
Jared,
and
George, who’d wanted a sandwich and some potato chips
where there were none to be had.
I laughed with my friend, Abigail.
We’d spoken of dreams long-abandoned
to work and changing circumstances;
finding satisfaction in simplicity and our own
intellects;
sometimes feeling that smartness
is in short supply in our
separate Red-State lives.
I pulled into my driveway
grateful for minutes spent,
memories shared.
I’ll stop in again
saying hello sometime
before the winter sets in
to stay for a while.
Maybe George will be there.
Perhaps I’ll stop by one of those Casey’s
before it’s shut tight or gone cold.
We can tell more stories,
sharing slices of our lives
along with
greasy pizza.
***
-JBClaywell
©P&ZPublications 2021
Sep 3, 2021
Sep 3, 2021 at 10:18 AM UTC
Looking through the window,
there she was,
behind the bar,
tending to the locals.
She herself,
my friend,
had become a local.
I wondered
if she begrudged
Hiawatha Kansas
the local-ness
that it had ****** upon
her.
I decided
that it would be better
if I didn’t ask.
Because my own hometown
was still home;
still feeling like someplace
That could be,
maybe do better,
but would rather not.
Choosing instead
to smoke cigarettes,
drink ***** and Red Bull,
while waiting for tomorrow.
Tomorrow would always show up,
looking just a bit more hopeful than yesterday;
remaining less motivated than we’d anticipated
last night.
I drove 39 miles with a belly full of
ate-at-home food,
leaving the house in favor of the blues band
playing downtown.
After their set,
I lost interest,
seeking something beyond the proffered
Friday night loudness and parking-lot
Mexican food.
I decided to see my friend, Abigail.
39 miles of ink-black nothing,
speed-trap smallness,
a couple of Casey’s
with
their lights shut off;
pizza ovens and donut fryers
gone cold for the night.
Red’s Alehouse looks like
It could actually be a house.
(there’s not much to it.)
The Budweiser sign,
neon.
the OPEN sign,
flashing.
Peering,
entering;
she screams in delight.
we laugh.
I sit.
we talk.
She dutifully fills new glasses,
washes those abandoned.
Someone puts a twenty-dollar bill
in her tip jar.
It was a good night,
a fair adventure.
I drove home again in the ink of the Kansas night.
36 HWY,
through the same speed-trap towns,
those convenience stores still
locked tight.
It was fine,
there in the dark.
Neither hungry nor thirsty,
I was sated.
I’d met ****
Steve,
Jared,
and
George, who’d wanted a sandwich and some potato chips
where there were none to be had.
I laughed with my friend, Abigail.
We’d spoken of dreams long-abandoned
to work and changing circumstances;
finding satisfaction in simplicity and our own
intellects;
sometimes feeling that smartness
is in short supply in our
separate Red-State lives.
I pulled into my driveway
grateful for minutes spent,
memories shared.
I’ll stop in again
saying hello sometime
before the winter sets in
to stay for a while.
Maybe George will be there.
Perhaps I’ll stop by one of those Casey’s
before it’s shut tight or gone cold.
We can tell more stories,
sharing slices of our lives
along with
greasy pizza.
***
-JBClaywell
©P&ZPublications 2021
