Note to my readers: My first attempt at poetry. Let me know your thoughts.
Elk Street is empty
Looking out the front window of McGill’s
at Crested Butte
On this April midmorning day
Elk Street is empty - of visitors.
Just locals pass my window.
I order All American Breakfast - two eggs over easy,
side of bacon, home fries, and a small stack of pancakes.
No need for food the rest of the day.
A few cars and trucks pass by
People in Crested Butte do not wash transportation.
No car wash business in the city limits.
If one feels compelled to splash off a vehicle one drives to Gunnison
- or they just wait for it to rain.
Every vehicle rolling by is sturdy - a truck or SUV of some kind - Toyota, GMC, Toyota, Ford, Toyota, Toyota, Jeep.
Assortment of brands and styles living peacefully on the same street.
“Whipping Post” by the Alman Brothers is playing on the stereo system
- my inaugural make-out song with my first boyfriend.
Fourteen years old and in love.
The song takes me back to that couch where I experienced
- what I thought was - true love.
Where did 50 years go?
Where did love go?
An older woman rides by on her blue bike
right down the middle of Elk Street.
Her head adorned with a colorful stocking hat
with a huge pompom on the top.
A long skirt, long sleeves, and a down puffy vest complete the outfit.
The sun is rising over Mount Crested Butte
She is riding straight for it.
An empty basket on the front
Maybe she is headed to the one and only grocery store in town
to buy her groceries for the day.
Good-looking, relaxed young man and his black dog
saunter down the sidewalk to the Post Office
which is located catty-corner from McGill’s.
My mind flashes back to a previous vacation:
New York City
A young man same age running down the street
- without a dog.
Dressed in a black suit and black dress shoes.
Running -not sauntering -
to the train or his office
- not sauntering.
Location -Location -Location
Location makes a difference
Unless it is a marathon or a 5K fundraiser to save the environment
One never sees anyone running here.
McGill’s closes on Tuesdays and Wednesdays
can not hire enough staff to work all week.
People need a couple of days off.
Locals don’t mind making their own coffee
and toast two days a week.
The music switches to an Eagles song - “One of These Nights”
another song from my childhood.
The young- pretty waitress knows everybody who walks in
- Gene - Tom.
Three women share coffee, toast, and giggles
over at the other window table.
Conversation is simple.
No talk of the war in Ukraine or Inflation.
People talk of camping trips
or visits to family out-of-state
during their downtime
- the off-season holiday.
“Have a safe trip,” the waitress hollers
to the male customer who has been chugging coffee at the counter
- as he walks out the door.
A sheriff’s deputy enters the door in full uniform,
flak jacket and all.
He greets the small crowd with both hands raised
a wide smile as if he has just entered an arena
and he is waiting for the applause.
HIs is young and handsome with a bright blue sweatshirt
tucked inside of his flak jacket.
He sits at Gene’s table.
Gene has a concern he wants to discuss
-possibly.
A hippie girl walks by
yoga mat strapped to her back.
Deep Purple’s “Smoke on the Water” hits the proverbial jukebox.
Hours of people watching could happen sitting here,
but the mountains are calling me
asking me for a date.
“Let’s take a walk in the woods
and listen to the birds sing a song or two,”
they say.
"Red-winged blackbirds
sing songs that never go out of style.
Maybe one of them will sing a song
you will never forget."
Crested Butte looks different
on the local side of things.
Not one tourist
- except me -
darkened the door of McGill’s that day.
And the people were happy
-it was off-season
You are a poet. Ice. And you’re on another adventure! Enjoy.