The old men are gone.
But once they hid under the brim of worn and dusty and sweat-stained silver belly Stetsons, leathery faces etched deep with the harshness of life on The Plains.
Worn-out boots caked in dust and whatever---
The scuffed leather of Red Wings and Justins unknowing of polish or even a brush since the day they were removed from the box and tugged upon feet, the heels now worn down by the awkward bow-legged gait of the owner.
They laughed and swigged Falstaff or Pearl beer and told tall tales and slammed down dominoes in defiance.
Now, only empty benches tell their stories.
Yet, no one comes down here to listen.
The trains moan an epitaph for the past as they roll fast across Saint Peter’s Street and outpace the traffic out on the old Bankhead Highway.
Once upon a time, the trains stopped. Passengers stepped down onto the platform clutching a pill box hat tight onto permed gray curls, wind-blown South Plains dust finding its way onto freshly applied red lipstick in an ungracious welcome home for Grandma.
Few in Stanton, Texas remember that.
Yet the ghosts never forget.
---RAM
Rick Malo©2025
Thank you!