On a Lincoln Highway Greyhound Depot

Sitting on a rusted blue bench the sun blew down on me a cool green and yellow as the afternoon tucked me into bed, The depot was old, no busses run anymore at least as far as I know only ghosts get off at this stop. White paper houses drifting along the plain finding themselves comfortable and settled in the cardboard cow-towns of cool America. Crying to me “Where do you go?” with a stop for a sip of black coffee and the dirt on the ground ends up on my shoelace but I don’t care. I see apparitions float into the motel and out of town and hop over the sea in one leap then over in India where the children cry and soon enough everything is a ghost floating its way around the blue-green earth and not really minding me just going along and brushing the dust off themselves. I look to my right, I see the road leading into town and a bird flies above in the shape of the color off-white then like a car drives off to the west, west, west as the continent unrolls like a Mohammedan carpet under their feet. The wind continues to tumble along and drops at my feet the lonesome cry of a locomotive whistle not that far away from me soon a train rumbles over me and I am crushed finely into powder and carried down by the wind hopefully to end up at my mother’s front door not some hole in the ground that would be dreadfully lonesome. Now the motel lights flicker clinging to life and it's just dark enough for me to notice the headlights stopping by for a how-do-you-do before rolling on and looking at me but just passing probably because I’m a mess and dirty and hair’s greasy but I promise I’m still kicking. Soon though I may die so that a skeleton bus can roll through this sometimes-town at sunset and out steps a weary driver with broom and dustpan in hand to pick up my bleached bones and dump me in the back seat hopefully by a window because I like to lay my head against it to sleep where it’s comfortable and my grinning cadaver will ride through this country and over hills and hollers around the world and look back every 4 and a half miles and sigh because I’m looking back To that Lincoln Highway Greyhound Station.