I was riding down a blue Kentucky road,
alone as usual, wondering about the wooded hills and their purpose.
So I parked next to a lonely church and went across the road
to investigate an abandoned bar set back on the far side of an empty pasture.
It was nestled under the trees covering a knoll that came all the way to the back door
which hung askew by one hinge so some of the tree-filtered light could leak in
and illuminate overturned tables and bentwood chairs littering the floor.
I watched forgotten ghosts drinking Kentucky Straight Bourbon as they
slouched and laughed and filled the dead air with smoke
from unfiltered Lucky Strikes and Camels or spit Redman stains on the floor.
They left me to soak up the echoes and wonder about their purpose for awhile as they
faded into not much at all.
Alone again, I turned back to the spring trees and
climbed the hill, wondering about the purpose of dappled light on the moss
and a fern lined rill cutting a tiny watercourse through the rocks on its way
somewhere. I laid down on my belly and stuck my face all the way in and drank deep.
It was sweet and cool, so I stayed there most of the day while water and birds
crackled and splashed their purpose at me. Toward dusk I made a lazy way back
to my ride in the shadow of the little church filled with another kind of Ghost
proclaiming its purpose in white clapboard.