Come dawn, I button down the tent and head out on my favorite deer trail, by and by must hit the highway down below and hike along side by side with hydro-carbon society. Framed ´tween the big trees, winding around mile after mile, slithers the traffic. In town, I stagger onward, joints creeking, blood clotting, a poor little bum seeking repose in a stuffed chair of Quixote´s Garage.
Once there, I fill a cup full of steamy-hot day-old coffee, heady & thick & free. And drink it down. Hmm hmm good. Ahhhhhhh…
“So Chris, a lot of people around here are beginning to believe you´re the personification of the Mother Goddess on Planet Earth. Chris, could this be true, you think?”
This is what I think about saying to the lean-bean hearty-spleen bounty-hunter babe in charge of this place. But I don´t say it. I have not the courage, or the energy.
“So Chris, why don´t you organize the homeless to do a corn-dance on the courthouse lawn ~ to show our appreciation to the community for all they have done for us? We could try mimmicking the Pueblo Indians in Santo Domingo.”
Aye! Just another un-voiced thought of I who am drained of gumption by the long long walk into town. I drain my cup, get up, fill it again, and fall back down into the comfortable chair. Ah, this one rocks, slowly rocks, back n´ forth, back n´ forth, squeeking…
Man of La Mancha
Going To Prescott