Wheatland, Iowa
The spring after work
on the highway ended
I came back
and spoke with the cashier
a lady at the gas station
as if a friend.
The morning awakened
with snippets of conversation.
I stood at the counter.
As if we could pick up
where we left off last fall.
Other assignments waited.
The burnt smell of coffee
lingered inside.
Locals came in for a cup.
Conversations of locals filled the air
and they treated her like a daughter
while light of the new sun shone.
She said that now she was going
with the mechanic in town.
Tires of passing cars and semis sang.
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