Dillon

Sitting on the hood of the white Buick,
Parked askew with tires crushing sagebrush
I lean back against the cracked front window
And trace the peaks of the Pioneers:
Torrey, Tweedy, Bridenstien,
Caressing each ridge with my index finger.

The town lights flicker,
held in the mountains' outstretched fingertips,
Frantically blinking indecipherable Morse code.
And I count--
One, two, three, four, five
Streetlights down Skihi Street
And I cup my home in my outstretched palms.

On the "other" side of the paired Railroad Tracks,
(The town's birth parents)
Ten-dollar rooms wait, empty
At the Metlen Hotel, a neon-encased relic.
But in the bar downstairs,
Lines of cowboy hats reflect in the grime-covered mirror
Ignoring the college kids playing foosball behind them.

The Quik Stop grocery, my parents' for eight years
Where Dad drank 25 cent Saturday coffee with the "regulars,"
Is glowing too--
Gas n' Go for the Friday night tourists
Ordering three-dollar lattes in the parking lot.

Downtown, The Bookstore is dark
But residents are conversing
With flickering computer screens
About the latest hardcover
Shipped in five days, "No Hassle, No Humans"

In the field where I made snow angels,
Waiting for the yellow Bus 6,
An alien Safeway orb
Radiates a proclamation:
The obituary of another small town.

The streets are empty on the drive home,
And I count the streetlights down Skihi:
One, two, three, four--
But as I turn into the driveway,
The fifth wavers out.
 

- - by Whitney Ward