Waiting for daughter to materialize
Out of the thin, dry, warm-for-winter air
In front of what used to be a used bookstore,
A little brick building in the desert,
Body listened to static and words floating
In from that very same air. A myth of a girl
Who was the best and brightest of her class,
Poor but preternaturally gifted, the future,
Who screamed in horror when she saw
The better education that had been denied her,
Was being promulgated over the radio.
The reporter who sought her out could not
Find her. There was some manipulation
Of the supposed-to-be true story to create
Suspense, but then the radio crackled,
The voices evaporated back into thin air
And an only semi-mythological daughter
Rolled up, riding in the back of an old truck.
The sun shone, the mythical truth forgotten.
The shelves remained empty and dusty
In the shadows of the Virgin Bookstore.
The only cure for story is never to finish one.
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