In a shadeless corner of a roadside swap meet
I met the Ghost of the Sierras
Hat drawn low on his homeless eyes
Behind a table of cherubic pipes and rusty blades
Artifacts of a time when his kingdom sprawled
He watches for the spot where my eyes hover
I settle on an ancient device and he opens the catacombs
His voice the heavy grind of rusted hinges
He tells me of its past and when last he used it
The journey of this thing is the journey of the ghost
I'm holding a child of the ghost in my hands
He turns to the sun and adjusts his hat
He tells me he's Arapaho so the sun doesn't bother him
Then I see that he is not the fallen king of this land
He is the land
The western comrade of Kerouac’s ghost of the Mississippi
Maybe even Kerouac himself
My arrogance has blinded me
Unworthy I replace the relic with newfound deference
Thank you I say
I'll do that he says
-T. Weeks
(A response to “Halcyon Days”)
Life Immense 