On a Kansas prairie, the winds exhaled
gales of dust that settled
land like thick fog. Ethel rode
her Phantom Rider load beyond the wind’s
almighty grip, she peddled past the locust
plagued corn that destroyed a midwest farmer.
The prairie wind stung her face. Covered in dust,
a barn the color of night hovered on
the horizon. Ethel’s legs grew weary
with each and every turn of the spokes.
The wind blew. A weathered old farmer
in blanched, patched dungarees hollered,
His voice rang in her ear. The wind blew.
She stopped, raised a sweaty hand to greet
the old fella’. Devils of dust were born,
slowly, Ethel’s voice sliced the wind.
The dust coated word resonated
with the broken, tired granger,
He blotted his forehead with
a checkered bandana . A small stream
of tobacco juice dribbled down his chin.
As long as the prairie wind continued
to blow, they remained content to remain
apart. When it stopped, Ethel rode away.