How I came to the ruler-straight, dry pavement of Flour Town
is beyond
me.
My wheels bump along the wide
patches of dry
manure clods
on Tomahawk road, a road
named by white European settlers,
a road
that takes Yutzys to buy some
Troyer’s cheese
and wide-brimmed hats.
At least I think they’re supposed to be wide-brimmed, but I’m just guessing here.
A road
that Pablo takes to get to work
at Cielito Lindo.
A road
with an unreasonably large Amish hotel
(Yes, Flour Town’s hotels go to church)
and a theater that runs poorly-researched musicals
(Hey Mel:
[and Glee, for that matter]
they don’t use musical instruments)
A road
that a Midwestern, Middle-class family of four runs on
to get physically fit.
A road
wearily driven by first shift factory workers
streaming in
in gray pick-up trucks.
A road
perused by a
curious, attentive,
young, visiting,
hard-working, judgmental,
hopeful, excited,
educated,
Mennonite,
first-year
English teacher.
