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.


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