Editor’s Note: Marlow is his own man. Like, totally.

– The Editorial Board

El Dorado

I found one of my old state highway maps from a cross country trip in 2005. It prompted this memory:

no chance at all,
completely cut off from
eastern imperial cities,
I was a middle aged man
riding my motorcycle
through Kansas
on the way to a rendezvous
with Steve
my stomach began growling
and the bike stopped
at a little cafe
in El Dorado.
locals were there
in force.
I sat at table
in the back
so I could see the others,
I ordered and the
food arrived.
the meal was
tasty
so was the
coffee.
the waitress was
unlike the other women
there.
she was natural
gently humorous.
others at nearby tables
said funny crazy
endearing things
people laughed
good clean
pleasant
laughs

I watched
the sun begin to shine on Central Street
beyond the
windows
I wanted to stay
in that cafe
it had possession
of me
everything
was beautiful
there
it would always stay beautiful

I had to go
Steve would be waiting for me in Hays
I told myself
that it was time
to mount up and ride.
I thought once more,
I’ll just sit
here and stay

but I rose and entered the El Dorado sunlight
I found my bike
and looked back at the cafe
as the bike accelerated out of town
then around a curve
into some hills

I looked straight ahead
wondering if the others
at the cafe
had noticed
the magic

I looked one last time
in the rear view mirrors
to see if El Dorado
was still there.
there was nothing in them
except for
fields of
golden corn

I listened to the
thrum of the
motorcycle
engine,
the sound
of the tires
on the pavement

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