Out-of-Work Rural America

Local radio. Call-in classifieds. My expectations. Set. By the station’s minimal. Factual. Web presence. Call in items. To buy, sell, trade or give away. What I heard. Was an audio portrait. Of need. Need yard work to pay the electric bill. Need to give away a dog. Need to rent out a fully-furnished room. Need to borrow a semi to pass driving test. Need housecleaning jobs. Need to sell outdated electronics at an inflated price. Need I say more?

The State. Of the State. Of Missouri.

Missouri. Is wrapped in the moniker. Meth capital of the U.S. So I should not. Have been open-mouthed. To see on a real estate disclosure form. The following.

13 (e) Methamphetamine
Are you aware if the Property is or was used as a site for methamphetamine production or the place of residence of a person convicted of a crime involving any controlled substance related thereto? Yes. Or No.

No. My sweet new house in the woods has not been used for meth production. No. It was not the residence of a convicted criminal. No.

The language. Around meth production. Is buoyant. And child-like. Mom-and-pop labs. Meth circles. A family. Of a cook. And addicts. Smurfing. For additives. Substances related thereto. Collecting. Mutating. Explosives and pills.

Talk to Me

Talk to me. Of yoga and birds. Find me. In the forest. In tree pose. Waiting. For birds. To alight.

Beyond the Wall

I love. To walk. Along the beach. Filling my pockets with shells and beach glass. So an unexpected day. In Mombasa. On a work trip. In Kenya. Presented me. A day at the beach. Which I have craved. And dreamed about. For months.

My hope. Was to walk. But. As I neared a low wall. It started. Jambo. Hey lady! Jambo, lady! Good morning! There they were. The young guys. Selling stuff. Who I remember. Making a beach walk impossible. On my last visit. Hopeful entrepreneurs. Making a walk down the beach. Unbearable.

So I park myself. In the shade of palm trees. For the day. With a book. And burn my face. To a bright red.

The other memory of Mombasa. Is getting up one morning for breakfast. There were beautiful, young Kenyan women. With their plates piled high with food. Their companions portly, jowly, aging German men. In shorts. And socks and sandals. I wanted to erase this impression on this visit. Of what my Kenyan friend calls “a few bad apples.” But last night. At the table next to me. He. Said to Her. You must be hungry! You have so much food on your plate. This is our last night, darling. Together.

And now. Mombasa. Probably rightly so. Continues. In my mind. Without changing.

What Could Have Been

It could have been. A bad situation. In a long, slow swing. Around a corner. The driver squarely hit a pedestrian. He fell. Onto the hood. If we were. Stuck in traffic. In a different part of Nairobi. We would have been. Surrounded. Often. After an accident. Bystanders. Steal from passengers. Out of anger. Thankfully. No one was hurt. And the guy graciously went. On his way. As did we.