Sequoia cactus stand like soldiers
at attention, raising daggers to heaven
as we stream by, counting the stiff bristled
coat hangers. We lean back and let
the dry desert uncomb our hair.
The radio pushes out uptown songs. Broken
neon lights at abandoned bars languish
under a blanket of dust, covering everything,
including the heat.
We sing with a song as a curio station
drops out from view on the shoreline
of sand behind us.
Shotgun ravaged signs blur past. Like the
whiz of passing souls, trucks and trailers
own the road. Armadillos scurry; some not
so lucky.
Leather jacket nights under broken stars
force everything into a chill.
Roger Singer 