Like desperadoes waiting for a call

  

 


From deep in the tunnel of the dream world the lonesome harmonica sang of rusted rails and tangled barbed wire. And then no more. No thunderstorms, no sleet, no itchy wool blankets. No way to find that abandoned mine.

All quiet except for the school bus huffing at the curb. Awareness dawns slowly. The blues harmonica is my phone. So very far away. Under the bed somehow. Or down some mine shaft. And would it ever offer another mournful morning wake-up so I can pinpoint its whereabouts?

And why-oh-why was I supposed to get up on my day off? To leave for Bolivia with Butch and the Kid? To repent a life of judging people who lose or misplace things? To actually wish Beto O'Rourke would call to ask for money so I can find my phone?

Thanks for visiting this wild west dream of locomotives, gunslingers, and bank robbers with twinkly eyes. And, yes, ranch dressing is always good for dipping cold pizza for breakfast.

© 2013-2019 Nancy L. Ruder