There was a girl from Arizona
I didn’t think much of
she was rather ordinary
short hair
square shoulders
you wouldn’t give her
a second look
She really wasn’t from there
neither was I
we found ourselves where
our lives took us
away from universities
and libraries full of books
We had eager conversations
about Being And Nothingness
and being in Kingman
and looking for wallops
on weekends
with the main drag calm and still
the silent sidewalks napping
One night when things were quiet
we climbed this thing
behind our building
whatever they called it
a hill, outcrop, rise or butte
we pulled each other up
till we stood on top
as far as we could see
jackrabbits, scrub and Oatman
sandblasted majesty
I was the first to pull the plug
an offer far away
so embarrassed
it took a week
for me to say
some words all neatly stacked
that I wasn’t coming back
and headed
where tall buildings climb
and the streets all bustle
all the time
her insignificance was hard to bear
as I found town after town
I once set out to find her
but she was not around
Paul Smith writes poetry & fiction. He lives in Skokie, Illinois with his wife Flavia. Sometimes he performs poetry at an open mic in Chicago. He believes that brevity is the soul of something he read about once, and whatever that something is or was, it should be cut in half immediately.