Dog Heart's Desperado Lament
The snake-buzz of desert tells you
how tough it is to go on without
the vanilla scent of her skin.
You're in buzzard solitude.
You're not thinking high school
pink carnations or milk mustache.
You wake to radio music somewhere
near Barstow that year she danced tassels.
Hazy luck: skinny cows on scorched ground,
boarded up small town stores,
Wal-Marts jammed with fat women
in stretched-tight sweat pants.
You jam roping gloves into the back
pocket of faded knee-hole Wranglers.
Back and shoulder pain is the least
crease on your whiskey-damp soul.
You settle for slight pause for starlight.