The back surface of roads
the lost brother of travel
the flats where crossroads
connect unevenly in chaos
a point of standing
stranded out of position
rest areas,
concrete tables
chained garbage cans
a sterile living room
absent of comfort.
cars park
lovers confess secrets
while drinking warm beer
there’s a casual theft of beliefs
and unsung anthems
voices of forgiveness
rise in vertical lines
the heart of the desert
is a cold hand.
Roger Singer 