On The Road Between Hometowns...(redux)

The tree's twilight sillohette and the swerving of my car in the wind make me wonder. As I drive by franchise restaurants, localized national bars. I never liked this town. Even when it was the only town I knew.

It's Tuesday and I see Beatrice's bus filled with geared up football players. Are they returning or departing. This early in the week it's a freshman game. Bleachers filled of parents, a girlfriend or two. Somewhere on that bus is a kid looking out a window who wants to be at home finding meaning in Johnny Got His Gun.

Swerving around eight miles of contruction. Not as tedious as it sounds. Correcting for wind resistance. Correcting for correction every time a semi speeds past.

The Ranch Bowl will be a Wal Mart. If it wasn't so cliche it'd be a great symbol. I haven't even seen this particular plot of land since last November. I broke-in to walk around. I don't have any personal attachment. I've never saw a whole concert there. But I'm a writer, allegedly, feeling or finding or forcing emotion in abandoned buildings comes as naturally to me as chain smoking, gulping coffee or making inapporiate comments.

Now it's a mesa. Dirt piled high and leveled off. Again, I wasn't there, man, I just...

Saddle Creek's explosion never meant much to me. Like the town. Just a 'faint' echo. A train whistle at three in the morning. I knew it was there.

So here I am. At this junction in history. Blessed with these debits and cursed by these gifts. 'Triumphing' in language because money never made sense.

Around Greenwood I wonder why? Have you ever met anyone from Greenwood? I haven't and I drank there

ONCE.

Why even bother? I understand the North Plattes and Ashlands. They serve a purpose. Shallow and hallow. Greenwood. A vesitigio. A ruin. Pompeii without the infamy. Just a town to expire. Tired townsfolk. A bar, gas station (closed at ten) and Amish furniture store. Is that all there is?

As the sun turns silloettes to shuddering wraiths,

I wonder.