Admission

Aimless travel was an engaging mirage that now lingers with admission by another route, beginning behind the eyes.

I recall a truck stop blinking at the edge of a southwestern town somewhere in the midst of an overcast state line that seemed familiar even at the time, or maybe it's just a stock scene of tractor-trailer lights glowing in the warm dust that still rises around idling engines & jake brakes heard purring into exit ramp grinds, only perceived presently between lucid destinations.

Who really knows, though? Memory is a hazy scope when alternatives are pared down by the dull edge of isolation. Let's go anyway:

A few figures from opposite reaches of a parking lot wander towards a motel lounge in amber backdrop outlines. Inside, a boothed family is teething on wings near cowboy hat or ball-capped shaking backs stooped at the bar & laughing beyond tables of snapped-buttons talking over each other & between themselves. A bartender approaches a regular by name, at a two-top watching a spectacle on one of the TVs, sitting alone behind three empties, & brings a fourth without clearing the rest.

Through the lounge, a serve-yourself steams casserole variations glistening at the sides & dry on the tops, each slightly distinct yet the same. At a u-shaped counter, a waitress stands near a few others seated at one end reminiscing a 1975 hometown bank robbery. Together, as if working a jigsaw puzzle, they recollect the details of a young teller who was shot that day & has been in a wheelchair since. Still talking, they look towards the entrance as a fleshy man with a sunken jaw comes in, looks over at the buffet & laughs, slaps out a few gummy words to himself, then advances toward the trays fuming under the heat lamps. The waitress watches as he returns with a plateful, sets it on the counter & sits, shaking his head, looking down at the plate, saying as if closely addressing someone from the past,

“Get outta town.”

Admission granted.