Red Picnic Table

Red picnic table dusty with loneliness,

the dry breeze blowing back the pieces of chipped paint hanging on by a speck.

There are red fence posts, a barrier from my empty surroundings.

Their color is harsh against the neutrals of Wyoming,

sticking out like a sore thumb among the expansive wilderness.

Mountains emerging out of the ground in the distance,

like a plant blossoming out of the ground and into the air.

They're far away, down a long and monotonous road, 

calling for those around them to come and conquer their tallest peaks.

They are hot with the heat of the sun beating down,

I smell dust  whip off the ground as a car pulls out of the lot,

A waft of gasoline and the sound of a gas pump.

It will be a while before another car accompanies me in this lot,

The only sound I hear is the dust twirling around in the road,

and the hushed sound of the country radio station inside the gas station. 

I hear the twangy guitar and the rhythmic beat.

It makes me feel happy. 

I feel content here,

The emptiness brings me an eerie comfort.

And the mountains make me feel small. 

Breathing in deeply the warm, dusty Wyoming air,

I am continuing my journey further West.