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white river poems 315
10 & 11
And late, lost on a back road,
storm warnings on the radio,
how large loomed up the fi rst man
I spoke to after driving
for hours. He wears a red cap
with white polka dots on it.
Leaves the horses he's tending,
puts a slow horny fi nger
on the map, "Here we are" -- looks
at me through rimless glasses
quietly, with pale blue eyes,
as I thank him. "You're sure
welcome," he says, his hand raised
slowly as I drive away.
What I was doing out there,
city clothes and red sports car,
and with a storm coming on,
was the politely withheld
topic in his manner; I
out of place, and Meeker gone
too far back into the place.
Enter the town of Meeker,
driving through a wet snowstorm.
The houses are small and old,
the stores, built along one side
of the main street, are all dark.
Down the street, a parked pickup.
My car is the one car here.