There was a final call for last drinks
at the Black Cactus Cantina, a place
comfortable in the shadows.
It was another night of switchblades, leather
boots and lies with smiles. Warm desert winds
and roaming lizards stir night sands.
Women with showy names and men without
truth move through the door to outside.
Cars set trails of blue exhaust. Broken bottles
signal dry throats. Eyes full of yesterday struggle
for home.
Roadside rests become their driveways for
a few hours. Concrete picnic tables are the
only neighbors.
Roger Singer 