West
on misty Scott Street
I
waited alongside buildings
still
standing, still in use
since
the oil boom of the 20s.
Warm
pockets of spring air
lifted
strands of my brown hair
like
a caress for having lived
through
another North Texas winter.
Scott
Street bends across an old bridge
walked
by people who have left the bars
tossing
their Red Draw over its rails before
turning
straight on Iowa Park Road
following
the train tracks rumbled upon
by
the Burlington Northern and Santa Fe.
Like
the Mesquite plant
I
bloom green every spring
just
after the last freeze.
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