Torn Between Texas and New Jersey

The woman behind the counter
said it was Caddo Valley
but really Arkadelphia,
or maybe the other way around.
She was a nice woman,
blonde and thin and tall
with glasses and decent skin
but not pretty.
She smiled when she told me
where I was;
rural postal codes
elude me
and New Jersey
never has
this debate.
The hazards of chronicling
our big country.

But pictures are easy:
the sunset behind a large white sign
for root beer, a rusty tractor and
an abandoned gas station, rest areas and maps
and misleading state-sponsored plaques,
count the concentration
of foreign cars and pickup trucks
to figure out where you are.

Four hours from Dallas,
and my own life
is the last thing on my mind.



© B. D. Fischer