Having done a lot of driving,
my tank was almost empty.
But, in other ways,
was as full as I could want.

We had gathered,
those who had asked for stories,
and myself.

We had spoken of the tasks of putting pen to paper,
of putting one’s own thoughts
onto the pages of composition notebooks,
of how doing so had saved my life,
and had potential to save theirs,
if they ever found themselves in such need.

I had driven also,
to the next small town over.

There was the promise of music,
hawkers selling food and drink,
a street fair,
on the town square.

I sat with my friend,
her family,
in the civic center park
of the town that lives
just to the north of
the small town
I call my own.

It had been a hot day,
but the breeze was nice.

My thoughts wandered to the week’s earlier journey.

The eighth-graders whom I had spoken to,
had their own stories,
from Mexico, Libya, Iran, Morocco, Palestine, and Nigeria.

They told me those stories
from their summer-school desks,
in Kansas City, Missouri.

Really, they didn’t seem much different
from the stories I could have found
in this sleepy little village
just fourteen miles from
my own driveway,
that tonight was electrified into activity,
by way of the evening’s festivities.

I don’t come here all that often,
except, on occasion,
to visit my friend,
her family,
maybe one other.

Every time I do though,
it feels like a different planet.
Or, like I’m the alien,
having never seen people before.

We would all do well
to get out more.

*
-JBClaywell
© P&ZPublucations 2018