TO MAKE A RESTITUTION
There is no need, the land is already dead. Each
festered oak and cactus, jimson weed and oleander,
every western willow that you see, are artificial
plants in memory's soil. We have left ourselves
with nothing really - no longer are even the
highways beautiful. Not more to say.
-
When fifteen, I chanced a ride on an Oklahoma
bound cattle truck; going one way or the other,
the driver said he didn't really care. 'Get in.'
Yes, his very words, 'get in'. What else was
I to do. He spoke to me : 'Now s'pose I'd have
been the Devil, a'been very Satan his'self, then
what would'ya have done - say I was going
around pickin' up young boys, young bucks
like you, just to lead 'em on to the road to
Hell, their place of damnation, their own
deadly place to from to die. Would you
then have come so easily? Would you
have jumped so quick aboard?' I didn't
know what to say, I just said, 'How
would'a I knowed, and anyway you
were the one who stopped for me -
I didn't ask for you.'
-
That was too long ago to just talk lightly
now about - most of it all I forget anyway,
and he wasn't no good, he pretended he had
nowhere's to go, one direction being the same
to him as the next. And with a truck full of cattle -
he had to be going somewheres, knowing already
where he was taking them. I knowed he was
just already lying to me, and
it all came so easy.
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