Down at the Dairy Queen
Along the morning breakfast table
hometown elders gesture to my seat,
and over cheap coffee we retell
our best stories, thickening our skins
as if to prepare for an attack
under heavy banter. We propose
resolutions to global issues.
Some of the tribal leaders slur that
there’s nothing to do in a small town.
They ask about my traffic routes, or
who pays for all of the free tents,
as if I am a scout returning
from the front lines. I assure them
that people in the big cities have a
false sense of security out on
the battlefield of life, distracted
by electric cars and second homes,
platinum cards and lonely phones.
We top off our cowboy-cool cups,
bid farewell, and then I pack
my belongings, encouraged to
move on.
Author’s note: This poem comes out of the joy I find in returning to my roots, sitting around a coffee table at The Dairy Queen with old-timers.
“It takes a small town to keep you humble.”
