Well-executed rain falls dark
on the crayon-red car, like memory
of sleeping in a station wagon:
no motel stationery love notes
to mail, heavy traffic white noise,
pistol beneath a jacket-as-pillow,
empty gaze of a waking Wolfhound....
White clouds crown the moon...
transience of ambition.
Your bony-narrow, blue-eyed
face in the rest stop aluminum mirror
belongs to a toppled Doc Holliday statue.