Comfort Shared

Sometimes I roam

Just me and my car, a few cds

maybe a snack or two

It was a granola bar, a Fuji apple

and a bottle of water today.

I was looking for Comfort

So, I programmed my GPS

and off I set, headed west–

the direction of home.

An hour in I realized this

though I didn’t have 11 more to spare.

Still, I didn’t rest in Welfare just in case.

Just to keep the pace.

No, not tonight. Not with a birthday dinner to attend.

Not without a change of clothes, the laptop I left at home.

I was supposed to be looking for a gift,

not rationing food and planning how to wash the clothes I had on without taking
them all off at the same time.

You said my poetry was good once.

If only I could write about something more important.

I can’t think of anything more important than love

at this moment or any other.

I think about writing this poem for you as I drive

and my palms begin to thump themselves in time

to the rhythm of West Texas Teardrops and my fingers

twiddle along side them in six part harmony.

You said, “I don’t believe in true love or any of that stuff.”

I should have warned you I believe enough for both of us.

It was 52 degrees, but with the sunshine in my windshield,

the seat warmer set on two

and the automatic climate control

at my ideal temp. of 74

I was warm for the first time all morning.

I smiled at the thought of you.

I read the sign before I could see all the letters.

Welcome to Comfort–An Antique Town.

A really old town? A town full of really old junk? I settled on a town of
really old people

as I cruised at 35 down the two-lane, straight and narrow

open road for miles in both directions.

I cruised so mellow I almost passed the hand-painted sign set out by the side
of the road.

“Flea Market–OPEN TODAY” like a boot-legger lemon stand, here today

but maybe not tomorrow.

The remains of the previous flea market were blackened powder beneath my feet.

The remains

The remains



signs of decay were every where

but the men were chipper as we all took turns

gathering around the pot-belly stoves, browsing one another

and the lady smiled

when I told her that the five-dollar wooden Louisville Slugger

was a wedding present for my sister.

It’s not.

“We’re open on Sundays little lady. Please come again and see us!”

“I will!” I said with a great, big genuine smile that made me feel
shiny and pretty.

But I probably won’t. At least not tomorrow.

Comfort, TX

Comfort comes in many ways.

I also found the perfect gift and made it back in time to wrap it and wash up
for dinner.

Make my day