A Place of Hays

From the windows of the second floor
    over the hardware store,
now apartment of college friends –
    conversation and speculation;
Shot from these windows
    the last Indians,
the last Americans
    native to these shores.
This was the tallest building
    then, in Hays;
the safe one, of rock
    that could not burn.
This is “The West.” or was,
    now a small town –
high plains of Kansas
    a long way from everywhere.
“Hays, Amerika,” some called it
    in loving jest.
Hippie ways were far away
    but effort was made.
Front Street faced the railroad,
    unused, reused storefronts
faced the empty tracks
    where life used to ebb and flow.
The old fort, its remains,
    a tourist site preserved
to hint of once past
    and a few buffalo: penned.
The university, Fort Hays State,
    the reason some come and go,
a small outpost
    of the outside world.
An American place,
    with paleozoic roots
into ancient seafloor past,
was home of mine.