Nostalgic Blur

Nostalgic Blur

I remember when America's
Places had their own faces

When each and every town,
a unique watermark impressed

upon the landscape's stationary.
Held up to the light, its own identity.

I remember back-country roads, small
cafes, mom and pop stores where jaw-

breakers sold for a penny and giant pickles
soaked in a briny barrel. I remember ten-cent

double-scooped banana splits at Baylor's parlor,
admiring the way you savored the sweetness.

I remember when Butte was Butte, Helena
Was Helena, Fresno was Fresno and

New York City was paradise, Hollywood
a fantasy. Yes, I remember well.

I suppose the blur like my failing eye sight
is inevitable. Lines between places distorted

Like the yellow arches, the chicken buckets
Or the little" te quiero" Chihuahua's home.

Or the endless sterile bypasses connecting
Wal-Marts with woodland wayfarers

caught in the headlights of progress. Driving
home today, my thoughts are of yesterday.