Bus Station, Superior, Montana June 1980
On roadside breaks
BAR is never misspelled and
Clouds hold fast oiled avenues
And no outlet streets
Longings disappear with
Stolen bus stop souvenirs and
Laminated maps with services and
Symbols of misguided hope
The Chamber’s a retired Pullman
With its CLOSED sign dangling
The Greyhound straddles darting
Cottonwood seeds idling
Awaiting roadside Superior
Coaxing lightning bolt chasers
Until the dust clears unaware
The town has departed