We call this town Leonard.

I live in a small town

where roads disappear behind hills.

There's one restaurant

between two stoplights

and people dine behind navy-colored shades,

scooping slivers of steak and vegetables 

onto tortillas and cradle beers

that stretch up towards lamps

long after the bar tender waves his hand

for last calls, 

and the lone bus boy drinks

leftover bourbon from a stubby cocktail glass.

People tear through the town circle

towards other cities. Suitcases

slide along the bench seats of trucks,

clips bang on door handles. Fire

funnels from a cracked downpipe,

singes pavement behind tires

that whine on loose gravel.

They feel the buildup 

going to a town housed by people that reach 

more than three digits. In anticipation,

they make sure to pack extra soap, 

a cooler filled with longnecks. A red Bronco

pulls up to a naked firepit. The driver gathers scraps,

while the loan woman pops off caps with a bent nickel,

passing them around a circle. Gusts of wind

blows the orange fire around in limp wisps,

voices disappear while a Vietnam veteran

who calls his shorter leg Little Buddy

talks about the time he went into a town

days away and sat around the same fire

with the same strangers.