Truant’s Saloon







It is like the long-lost relative…

the one who takes more than they give.

They come in with the drought no one wants…

like a Jerry Lewis telethon


So, what does one do when the interference is gone?

Perhaps, a small town funeral for the passing of the sad tides.

Masses of dark flannel for a rodeo princess…

taken before her time.

Social climbers and weary hikers rubbing wallets down at the Family Dollar.

Backyard mechanics…jumping an old Deere.

Wives scrubbing the garden off the collar.

Polyester real estate up for bid.

Out of season t-shirts…fading in the sun’s light.

Delicate parts and parcels of small town plights.

The mountains move to a different beat.

As, visitors come and go…on the jaded side streets.

Thus, when the out-of-towner’s…have gone.

Day to day…comes back home.

The big brown dog and I, smile at the facade.

But the fall air will be approaching soon.

Then another swarm will be upon us…

Like lumberjacks to one dollar drafts…down at Truant’s saloon.

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