Here in the midst of history
among the ghosts of 66, the mother road,
            the past refuses to be buried
half-forgotten, shrouded, yet, standing tall.
Here in the midst of history
the past and present marry.
Phantom feelings whisper from the shadows.
among the crumbling curiousities,
decay and paint-chipped wood
among the twists of history,
Along the empty streets of Tucumcari.
 
Among the shaded days and lingering
mysteries of countless long-dead travelers
who trod the empty streets of Tucumcari,
the final picture show is closed and gone
empty storefronts and forgotten dreams
main street vintage motel neon flickering
tumbleweeds and swirling dust.
 
Tourists on the edge of town,
in big chain motels out on the Interstate
bypass the artifacts of time,
too caught up for dusty dreams and faded glories.
spirits lingering along the road,
here in the mists of history
here on the empty streets of Tucumcari.
                        

I know people afraid to drive through 
to get downtown,
but the weeks I walked Austin’s streets
knocking on doors for the census
it was nothing but a neighborhood
with kids playing in the yard
people on porches sitting and talking,
folks selling snow cones
from sidewalk card tables
with bright flavors
and coolers of chipped ice.
There was an old timey feel to it,
like my grandmother’s neighborhood
where I spent a lot of time as a kid
back when things moved slower
and people took the time
to take their time.