See Arkansas First

“See Arkansas First” said the ghost of the bikini babe,
One hand in the air and one hand on the ski rope,
smiling through the rust and flaked paint of her sign. 
Out of place like a saguaro on the shoulder of Highway 61,
but the speedometer said sixty five 
and she was gone as I asked “Why?”
Arkansas is three hundred miles away.
Nothing between here and there but Louisiana. 
Another day, another flake loose in the wind.
Another week, another tank of gas
Another year, another life
and her constant invitation remained
as her smile disappeared under the rust,
neglected and abandoned,
still calling me to see Arkansas first.