Along a desert

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.





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