just passin’ through

Crumpled, old men flock on dusty sidewalks to pass time and squint their eyes at the merciless sun.
Ladies, in these parts, stay in, tend to chores, do what’s necessary.
No laughter of children to counter the whoosh of an occasional empty breeze.
Southwestern expanse stretches across a mesa-dappled horizon.
The Fareland Hotel – the only one in town – circa 1889- weeps from its cracking paisley wallpaper and creaking floorboards.
The “Stop & Go” diner flashes its gaudy fluorescent pink lights as the tired blonde waitress twirls a curl between her mauve fingernails.
Ivy tells those stories to keep these strangers entranced while she’s pouring another heavy cup of bitter coffee, simmerin’ in the pyrex pot just a bit too long.
Trickles of gossip drip from her rounded lips, a sly smile creeps along her ruby-powdered cheeks.
She picks up the change the truckers leave, caressing the larger coins, stretching fingers in her tight apron pocket.
Her movements hold the attention of any stranger in town, passers through, some regulars, too.
Better not stop, keep driving through.
Brown’s Junction just might
take the best from you.



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