Barns

They’re surely disappearing. 

I saw my first painted barn on the way up to Pulaski. On a back highway. Lonely, off in the distance, hollering. The words were a collection that didn’t make sense to the young boy, riding in the car with his Pa. Then, over the years, I’d see them less and less. Falling back into the kudzu or painted over ’cause of legislation. But you can’t take that memory. Every time I see one, I remember that day: driving with the windows down, listening to A.M., with nowhere to go and a long time to get there.