Bus Stops in One-horse Towns Walt McDonald Mistakes we made as teens come back to haunt us by forty. Slit-eyed and slouched, we tucked cigarettes between lips, in flipped-up sleeves of tee shirts, nothing above our ears but butts and ten-dollar haircuts. The enemy was easy to see, two-dimensional parents with black-and-white advice. We etched graffiti warnings in shiny sunglasses even grown-ups could read, sad rascals out of touch. We sneered, shot pool, flipped butts at mail trucks that made us wait by the curb while girls crossed the street and never looked back. Teen years are bus stops in one-horse towns, Who cares, stay here or leave. Today, a gang of punks swaggered up and bumped us on the sidewalk— our own sidewalk, our own tough neighborhood—kids slicking back glossy hair and sucking cigarettes, sunglasses down to ignore us, the same message we etched in lenses decades ago, Good riddance, Don't come back.

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