By Pat West
Driving east out of Hays, the earth flattens,
the road straightens, nothing but golden wheat
all the way to the horizon waving in the wind.
I turn north at Salina to Montrose, a town so small
there’s no city limits sign, no population fifty three posted.
Mom writes often, letters full of small-town news.
Her cousin bought the high school
to store his farm equipment. The town lost the hotel
to a fire, young people to larger towns
and cities. The Feds shut the Post office
a few years back. Walt’s filling station and café
the last store standing. Like a movie fading to black.
Walt, a barrel-chested man, comes from behind
the counter to gather me up. I ask, How’s business?
This here’s the only place to go for gossip.
I also stock bread and milk but townspeople have to drive
eight miles to Mankato just for groceries.
I ask why folks stay. Dad does his little up
and down shoulder shrug, Friends grow thick
in towns like this, our roots intertwine
like a grove of cedars.
The Methodist preacher comes late
on Sunday mornings, after he holds service
over in Beloit. Wednesdays Mom and other women
meet at the church making tiny stitches,
piecing together a Kansas Star quilt the sewing guild
will donate to the Lord’s Acre Sale, held each October.
Eggs can go for as much as ten dollars a dozen
and the quilt still brings the highest bid.Pat Phillips West was born in Illinois. Her work has appeared in Haunted Waters Press, Persimmon Tree, San Pedro River Review, Slipstream and elsewhere. Some of her poems have been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net.
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