INTERSTATE IDAHO POP. 775 TOWN
R. Kimm
I’m moseyin, walkin,
waitin for my writer
friends who get off work,
lazy summer day, even in
this Interstate Idaho Pop.
776 town. I’m lookin at the
Logging trucks, the cattle
Trucks, the gravel trucks,
Parked, waiting, time to eat.
(There’s an osprey nest about a
Quarter mile up from the diner
--- right next to the Two-Hearted
Clark River, 50’ up, and 50’
from Interstate, trucks chugging
up the grade on one side, gliding
down on the other, as the tan and
white parents take turns brining
fish to the hungry chicks, cautious-
ly winging in their heavy loads.)
Then I turn into a side-street ...
Where my roving reporter’s eye
Catches IT (the revealing scene):
A Pair --
Him a laid-off logger,
Her a short-haired honey-blonde --
Comin round the bend, around the
Corner of “their” 1-story rented 2
BDRM ranch house painted dark green.
There is a hush, a rush, a perfect
Unintended conspiracy about them.
She is furtive, while
He’s almost tripping over himself --
Trying, with varying degrees of success:
1) to walk quickly around the
corner in tandem with her
2) not step on her tiny tenny-
clad feet with his vibran soles
3) keep smilin at her and keep
that conspiracy goin,
4) and elude my gaze, my quiet
“ grasping of the situation” ....
