If the world should end in Ogallala

I have an older poem that starts “If the world should end in Ogallala…” partly because Ogallala always felt to me like a gateway town out there before you leave the West, West or before you reenter it. And I suppose at one time I could have seen myself living there. I’ve always been drawn to Nebraska, especially that portion around I-80 as you leave Wyoming. I stayed the night in Ogallala as I was driving home this past week. I’d gone out to Oregon on May 3rd and spent time with my Mom and visiting with family in various scenarios of out of doors or one or two people indoors. Then I a side trip to visit dear, dear friends before heading to Playa at Summer Lake to write and, as it turned out, sit quietly watching the amazing sky and listening. I pulled into Ogallala just as a storm did and watched a terrific rain wash away the dust and send people scrambling into the feed store behind the hotel.

If the world should end in Ogallala,
let me drift on the Platte

Ogallala was one of the stops for the pony express and you see signs about places to visit to learn more about this short-lived business venture. It made me think, in school we learned about the pony express and how mail was moved in this modern and quick way. I’m pretty sure this 18-month endeavor is taught more widely than slavery or the various genocides that have happened all over these United States of America. If you’re in certain states and school districts you may never hear about them, or never hear about them in ways that are straightforward and true.

If the world should end in Ogallala,
let me drift on the Platte
until I wash up away from you.

I need to go to a place a heart can relax, freeze-dried and still.
Where daylight presses down in two equal commodities
too much and not enough. All the extreme I can handle.

Of course, I spent a good portion of the drive thinking about the events of January 6, which are already being white-washed and turned into the myth of “nothing happened”, but it shouldn’t be surprising that the makers of this new myth are the same makers of the old myth and, in fact, are the keepers of lies and myths.

If the world should end in Ogallala,
let me drift on the Platte
until I wash up away from you.

I need to go to a place a heart can relax, freeze-dried and still.
Where daylight presses down in two equal commodities
too much and not enough. All the extreme I can handle.

I’ll leave you on the plains, where the hills rise like knuckles
at rest, and the horizon never moves closer than the promises we kept.

That sky and the art titled Black Rock Diamond by Rick Asay and Rebecca Davis (2014) on the lakebed just down from the pond. (That sky!)