(spoken by Billy Sam)
A road strikes south from San Antone
on a line that’d get ya here,
but vanishes in sand and stone
and cactus even the winds fear.
Worse is true of the buckboard track
takes off from Brownsville north by east—
it don’t get here and don’t go back.
A man takes it’s a good as deceased.
We have no airport or railroad line
but finding us, if you have a mind,
involves no work, no thought, no cost—
to get here, you have to be lost.
©2009 Edmund Pickett
(This poem may be copied or forwarded, as long as you retain the copyright notice and author’s name.)