Trading Post Meaning Diagnosed
2 October 2013
Inspired by an article by Steve Simpson published in the San Juan Record.
Heavy rains made for lots of weeds
Growing around the trading post.
I procrastinated due to pressing needs
Until weeding became foremost.
So I was sitting on a box in which milk's crated
Extracting goat-heads and cheat grass,
When a restored '69 Chevelle decelerated.
As it parked, the stereo's output mass
Was so loud that Every People by Family Stone
Could be heard, "There is a yellow one
That won't accept the black one,
That won't accept the red one,
That won't accept the white one."
The hippie winked, switched off the engine
And headed into the cafe for his day to begin.
Next, a car that had seen better days
Stopped close to where I sat pulling weeds.
Out stepped two women of stylish Navajo ways.
"Which direction to the woman of weaving deeds?"
"She lives over there," pursing my lip
And indicating south to the Reservation.
One woman explained she had a kinship,
But there had been decades of social privation.
This woman had moved away to live among the "whites."
"Really, you left us to live with those guys?"
"Yes, I married one and my grandkids are urbanites.
Disappointment must have shown thru my eyes.
Portuguese ancestry gives me darker skin, that's true,
Or maybe it was the way I pointed with my lips,
She looked at me in earnest, "Well, they're people too."
The women left to continue searching for relationships.
A few minutes later the hippie strolled out.
Then as he backed away, his stereo kicked in
"We got to live together," rock and rolled out.
It crossed my mind that insight often clicked in
At unexpected times from an uncommon emissary
And I should give my attitude a new itinerary.
