Long Sunday Drive

Whenever they traveled through
Nevada, especially
The emptiest parts, they felt

They skirted the dusty hem
Of a curtain they could not
Push aside to slip behind.

It felt like another life
Waited in some lonesome spot,
Wedged in a spring-fed canyon,

Fronted by a half-ghost town
Where groceries, gas, and mail
Were gathered at the last stop.

If they could find it, they could stay,
But they could never find it.