Tonight's Poet Corner: The Trail

The Trail
by Belinda Roddie

Our house is older than the town,
built in a no man's land where winds
carry the shrapnel of a cold Western
apocalypse to the front step. People

used to come to this trading post to rest
a bit during their travels. They drank
brandy and ate jerky and played
mantras on cracked washboards. They
told stories to the owners, who sold

cans of beans and dried bacon to
anyone with the stomach for it. Now
we've nailed a sign to the fence outside
stating that we appreciate the history, but
our lives are not so dusty or rustic. We

simply prop our feet up on couches
after long shifts at stores and offices,
watching the baseball game while
the shadows of tumbleweeds imprint
the walls like desert vagabonds.