Williams, Arizona.
Melted snow and dusty streets.
You and I had to stop.
We’re drawn to places
of power, like roadside
attractions. No matter how
cheap or quaint they seem,
they’re free of cliches.
Here it was, a shrine to
Route 66--even if it was
just a dirty painted banner
on a faded tan brick
gas station wall:
“LAST TOWN BYPASSED
BY I-40 ROUTE 66
WILLIAMS, ARIZONA
OCTOBER 13, 1984.”
You parked the rented car
on broken pavement.
You had to stop and take a
picture of the sign and
posed between
the parked Sequoia
and mud-covered pickups
You don’t know to
pray, but you know how
to pay attention,
how to halt and idle
in the exhaust of diesel fuel.
Really, what else should you
have done? Doesn’t everything
disappear too soon? What door
will you open now that your
sacred window is closing?