On this midsummer day the cactus flowers wilt and burn,
neither a breeze through the window of this old truck nor your fingertips succor my brow creased.
A tumbleweed competes with the momentum of this rolling steel only to surrender to a pebble stray.
I cant feel the gear shift without your fingertips caressing the back of my hand.
A bead of my sweat rolls into the seat cover and out wafts your perfume long lost.
middle-aged foreclosed but not broken I drive.
into a mirage that betrays me.