Flea Market Treasure

Turned out in her finest frock,she squints into the sun, posesstiff-spined for the camera,smiling for this souvenir portrait,now faded, enigmatic sepia.Rocky Mountains rise behind her,and I imagine a visit to the Wild Westgravesite of Buffalo Bill, panoramaof golden prairie and the juttinghogbacks of earth’s backbone,hot, dry wind tugging tendrilsof hair out of its tight bun.She holds a ten-gallon hat,perhaps the photographer’s prop.No man’s arm encumbers her waist,no child peeps from behind skirts.This postcard, clean as a new slate—memento of her first trip to a landunlike the enclosing Blue Ridge,or proof of independence—no address, no postmark telling timeor place, no trace of looping cursivewish you were here.