Tuesday, September 8, 2015

Mirror-Distorted Pastoral Dream

Mirror-Distorted Pastoral Dream

Phone rings... dice shake in a plastic cup:
you learn there's yellow-gold sky over Vegas.
Crushed cigarette packs, forced smiles,
grimy used-before wedding rice:
the lonesome of memory-left-behind.

You listen, drawn-in: someone's else's stroke,
someone else's dialysis, a friend too rickety
to shuffle across a living room without falling.

Now you grip a fistful of volcanic ash
from three-inches below surface soil.
Now your blood is sober... no conclusion.

Phone is silent.  Your knee-high,
mule-eared Tony Lama boots scuff hardwood.
The window is open to drought-tough sagebrush
to coyote scream, to blacktop a mile or two
closer to some ditch wreck... to Nevada.

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