There are potted flowers at the entrance of the supermarketAn early sign of hopeful spring. And someoneIs asked whether she still breeds the kind of pupsThat he once bought many years ago.She does not, “But call me,” she says.“Alexander has a dog that he’s thought of giving up.”And he says he will.And all along the upper half of the wall, there runs,Like a ribbon, the route of old Highway 66,With the cities listed one by one.And right in the middle of the lineSits Tucumcari, the almost proud little townNestled nearly halfway along The once-famous highway leading downFrom the windy city to the sandy beach of Santa Monica.And would you guess, that the people there are just like us?That’s how it seems anyhow. And I am grateful to have stopped.

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