Bill Roberts, Poet

In the Sticks

Author: Bill Roberts

Never once did it occur to me,

my love, that we’d end up

living in the sticks as we do.

A creature of the Nation’s Capital,

where I was born (probably one

of few who’ll admit to it),

I grew up with symphony orchestras,

visiting dignitaries, the up-and-down

Redskins, the ne’er-do-well Senators,

or Nationals as they’re now called,

guys who play at baseball, people

of all colors and creeds and hair styles -

a veritable hodge-podge of humanity

where everyone was so different

no one was thought to be different.

Then New York City, the Polished Big

Apple, with you for three dizzying years

before heading west, stopping first

in Denver where restaurants served

steaks, big steaks for big appetites,

and now finally in this burg, Broomfield,

or Field of Brooms, as I prefer to call it -

not at all a bad place but, baby, it’s

the sticks.  But you know something?

I love sticks.  And I love livin’ in ‘em.

(Published online in the Spring 2008 issue of Octopus Beak Inc. – now defunct)

Note:  A poem of love of small-town life and living.  After New York City and Washington, D.C., plus visits to Paris, Rome, Vienna, London, Dublin, Barcelona, Istanbul, Jerusalem, San Francisco and so many other fabulous cities around the country and world, it’s a total pleasure to settle down in the Field of Brooms.  Here we have access to the cultural and culinary pleasures of Boulder west, Denver south, as well as Denver International Airport for almost anywhere else in the world.  Life is easier, more contented here.  Take my word for it, please – just hesitate before you come calling.  We want small to remain small.  And the sticks ain’t the sticks with too many hicks.

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