Needmore

 

by John Clare

The day was drawing to a frantic close,
The miles of repeated pines to never end.
Low on fuel,how far must this forest go?
Then up ahead, a single bulb flickering.

As we turned into the lone, little store,
The elderly lady rose from her rocking chair.
"We don't see too many travelers in Needmore,
Mostly they just rush on past going nowhere!"

While the numbers ticked, she told of her life,
Tales of bee gums sweet upon the deep creeks,
Of her long departed husband courting his wife,
The marriage at Hopewell, the kiss on the cheek.

She could have left this forgotten little stop,
And moved on down to Lake Cities grandeur.
But she chose to remain next to the blacktop,
Telling her story to the journeymen obscure.

Slowly we lowered the handle of the Supreme,
As the elderly lady settled back into her rock.
Desperately we wanted to linger in this Needmore dream,
Where the travelers going on to nowhere forever stop.

Late that night we had to stop at another store,
The needle on the gauge reading below low.
Why, didn't we just fill up back in Needmore?
Needmore? The clerk said, "Why that station was closed
over twenty years ago."