Just me and my car, a few cds
maybe a snack or two
It was a granola bar, a Fuji apple
and a bottle of water today.
I was looking for Comfort
So, I programmed my GPS
and off I set, headed west–
the direction of home.
An hour in I realized this
though I didn’t have 11 more to spare.
Still, I didn’t rest in Welfare just in case.
Just to keep the pace.
No, not tonight. Not with a birthday dinner to attend.
Not without a change of clothes, the laptop I left at home.
I was supposed to be looking for a gift,
not rationing food and planning how to wash the clothes I had on without taking
them all off at the same time.
You said my poetry was good once.
If only I could write about something more important.
I can’t think of anything more important than love
at this moment or any other.
I think about writing this poem for you as I drive
and my palms begin to thump themselves in time
to the rhythm of West Texas Teardrops and my fingers
twiddle along side them in six part harmony.
You said, “I don’t believe in true love or any of that stuff.”
I should have warned you I believe enough for both of us.
It was 52 degrees, but with the sunshine in my windshield,
the seat warmer set on two
and the automatic climate control
at my ideal temp. of 74
I was warm for the first time all morning.
I smiled at the thought of you.
I read the sign before I could see all the letters.
Welcome to Comfort–An Antique Town.
A really old town? A town full of really old junk? I settled on a town of
really old people
as I cruised at 35 down the two-lane, straight and narrow
open road for miles in both directions.
I cruised so mellow I almost passed the hand-painted sign set out by the side
of the road.
“Flea Market–OPEN TODAY” like a boot-legger lemon stand, here today
but maybe not tomorrow.
The remains of the previous flea market were blackened powder beneath my feet.
The remains
USE DOOR TO THE SIDE
PLEASE OPEN AND SHUT DOOR
signs of decay were every where
but the men were chipper as we all took turns
gathering around the pot-belly stoves, browsing one another
and the lady smiled
when I told her that the five-dollar wooden Louisville Slugger
was a wedding present for my sister.
It’s not.
“We’re open on Sundays little lady. Please come again and see us!”
“I will!” I said with a great, big genuine smile that made me feel
shiny and pretty.
But I probably won’t. At least not tomorrow.
Comfort comes in many ways.
I also found the perfect gift and made it back in time to wrap it and wash up
for dinner.