Nowhere to Nowhere

by BJ Omanson

When they sold off the farm she took the child

and took a bus out of town — as for him,

with everyone gone, with everything grim;

he opened a pint of bourbon, piled

pictures, letters and clothes in the yard,

doused them with kerosene, struck a match

and watched as they burnt to ashes, watched

and worked on his whiskey, working hard.

The next morning he caught an outbound freight

heading god-knows-where and he didn’t care —

he was down to nothing, a gypsy’s fare —

down to a rusty tin cup and a plate,

dice and a bible, a bedroll and fate,

down to a bone-jarring ride on a train

through country dying and desperate for rain,

running nowhere to nowhere and running late.

Published by Robin

I'm a retired journalist who still has stories to tell. This seems to be a good place to tell them.

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