unkempt scaffold
He opened his eyes to the same clearing,
the hum of cicadas rose from the tall thicket nearby,
the sun ran through leaves like his fingers through his wiry hair,
a bead of sweat traced down his face.
His clock now blinked one,
which he knew wasn't right.
He turned his key, which he had left in the ignition.
His engine coughed to life and let out a squeal—
a loose serpentine—
a few minutes to an hour should fix it.
He lifted his left foot off his clutch,
and the wheels turned the earth.
He ambled patiently through pond sides and covered bridges
to a small courtyard in a dusty town.
Above him rose a steepled grain elevator,
shadowing an empty rail yard.
Near there was a small feed store,
a time capsule once forgotten.
He pulled into the lot where the road left,
and the gravel picked up.
He parked next to an old farm truck,
patinaed over green paint.
Cigarette cartons and beer cans littered the bed.
An old man of about eighty or so hopped out with a toothless smile,
wearing overalls and a freshly ironed tattersall.
He followed in quietly behind.
One chime, and then another,
left by a bell hung above the glass door.
A lap steel guitar and sour air met him as he passed through that precipice.
Two young boys, carbon copies of the old man, stood by the counter,
and a man hovered over in about his mid-forties
discussing feed held up by last night's rain.
The shorter of the two boys tugs at the old man's overalls and points at the newcomer.
The old man, almost startled, turns abruptly at him and beams,
"What can I do ya for?"
Before he could get out a word, the old man interrupts,
"What's your name, son?"
The drifter paused, then drew a breath, and before he could speak,
the younger man cut in.
"You ask too many questions, grandpa.
He's probably just thirsty."
The man reaches behind the counter, pulling out two nearly frozen drinks,
popping them both open,
and slides one down the laminate counter.
mortal jay
green yacht
I love your work, Dorgobork!
young apex
rocky roost