This dying little town,
the one I happened to be driving
through late one night,
or maybe it was early one morning?
No matter —
this little known hamlet
was like any other single
crossing establishment;
any other prospect town
that went nowhere fast and preferred it that way,
it even had one of those
MINI MART
places
that had more letters in its name than words;
the kind of store
I could never understand how
or why they became nationwide
franchises;
link
by
link,
connected together,
forming a chain of convenience,
all the while enslaving with its chains.
Coincidentally,
I found one
in every single town
I so desperately tried
to get away from.
Regardless,
I carefully pulled
into the parking lot of a bar that screamed
"I am of a questionable reputation,
but my drinks will make you forget all of that!"
Ever so slowly, I put my car into park
with a heart surgeon's precision
and bedside manner.
I stepped outside
and straight into a puddle of beer,
runoff water that had nowhere to run,
and a school of cigarette butt fish.
I let out a deep sigh,
thinking to myself,
people are nothing
but rose bushes
without the roses.
Letting go of my
disappointment, I made my way
towards the front door, my polished
black shine boots seemed to melt into
the slick cobblestone pavement; spilled ink
upon an oil slick.
The light from the windows shone
through like a faded candlelight
from within a beer bottle.
YOU ARE READING
Root Beer Hair
General Fiction"I asked the boy beneath the pines. He said, 'The master's gone alone herb-picking somewhere on the mount, cloud-hidden, whereabouts unknown.'" - Searching for the Hermit in Vain by Chia Tao
