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Poetry By
  Steve Meador

Published on: 4/1/2016
Eavesdropping along I-70

I have a hankering to go to Goodland, Kansas,
sit near the tracks and absorb the rattle and clank
of grain cars as they waddle past dusty elevators.
Then, head to Hank's and grab a fried bologna
sandwich on whole wheat bread, with mustard
thinly spread and checker-thick dill pickle chips.

From behind steaming coffee I'll eavesdrop against
wheezy old-timers, slurping through cups of soup
and yakking about cattle and corn and wheat.
Topics will change. Football, seasons now rusted
and others yet to be forged, will burn like habanero
juice on the tongues of some. Then, an explosion.

The youngest. a man of fifty, maybe sixty, lights
the fuse on a stick of dynamite and throws it
into the middle of the room with his deep voice,
Fellas, I sure hope we see some rain. Soon.
It is enough to blast a hush over western Kansas;
wheezer minds were blown back to the Dust Bowl.

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