The Center of the Universe

I pass a rusted sign,
so brown and bent 
I can only make out 
the ‘T’ and ‘s’ 
of Tulsa. 
I call our first stop at a convenience store 
five miles east. 
The woman at the register
jumps as I open the door.
Her smile folds into 
lines that run from her nose to her cheeks,
as if her mouth 
has spent more time
in a grin than it ever has
resting. 
In the evening
the tips of the winter wheat turn from red 
to deep orange.
They sway gently in the breeze to the beating
of the slapping bass 
and feet beginning to stomp.
The boys I dance with smell strong of cologne,
(the kind that’s probably called Suede
or Mist
or Dirt)
and their calloused hands hurt mine
when they spin me. 
We dig our boots with youthful festivity 
in dirt tread once by spur-clad cowboys,
the ones my teachers say wore hip-high chaps,
and winked at the married,
and always had a twig of straw
bouncing lazily off their lower lip.
Tread on again
by uprooted Cherokees
looking to bury back down
in soil packed in rye and cow hooves; 
who’s backs bent under belongings 
seized for last trips from home.  
Those my teachers left to 
three titular words,
evoking images of 
five thousand miles of dirt,
salty with sweat and tears. 
Nevermind that,
the music’s too loud 
to think...
to pity.
The banjo carries me off.