A midnight order given, a Kinko’s pickup needed and
the silver line of a low moon lit road splits wide the open prairie.
“Unique work,” I say to myself, and traversing this land
creates a kind of messed up logic to a white kid
whose near ancestors’ wood framed wagons
cut through granite rock, dropping steel rails on top of that and asphalt soon after.
I cut through the night. Three hours from here to there.
Necessity. I must arrive before the ranchers down vinegar shots at sun-up.
“It keeps the mosquitos off,” they say. I drink it in daily, in secret and not.
I do believe the myth. The sun rises, my Kinko’s poster too
as the east coast film director yells “action,” and squints at the unfolding scene.
Pioneer hats and prairie dresses unveil young adults, actors of some kind
filling the roles of their clothes and of their ages.
Behind the scene, I hammer iron rods into the earth,
canvas ripples in the wind and the tents are staked that they’ll sleep in.
Dozing again I hit the road.
My goal just three hours away, and back.
“In Pursuit of a Dream,” just three hours away
as the low moon lit road splits wide the open prairie.
Rolling, I ask myself half-awake whose dream am I pursuing?