With Bob Dylan playing on the radio “Tangled Up in Blue“, in an old place out in the middle of desert I-55, found somewhere not often passed, he gets up and scratches his ear as he walks to the soda machine to break open another Coke. The sun is hot radiating, outside announcing its ability to burn, & just cool enough in the shade to stand another day. The old gray-bearded man sits in his chair waiting for the next stranger to come along in this out-of-the-way roadside station, old highway, to buy a few gallons of gas. The last visitors were this morning an older couple looking retired, churchly, on their way to some other place. As he sits there sipping his cool soda, he gets lost in the memories. A dust devil spins by throwing up sand and dust over the dry baked ground. Two crows land on the Barbed wire fence next to him, as if checking in for the day, should there be scraps hanging around the porch, or fresh flesh to peck. Overhead in the blue skies, traced with white clouds running lengths of the horizon, in the distance a tiny 747 works its way across the sky. He wonders if the people are looking out the window if any can see where he is at.
“Imagination will often carry us to worlds that never were; but without it we go nowhere.”