Roadside Attractions

The desert stretches its paws in endless forevers.

Vultures and hawks circle overhead
eyeing ruined billboards advertising
diners gone since the seventies.

Echoes of the ancient world tumble
over rock, spill down through time.
Coyotes call those who never come,
hang up when no one answers.

This billion year old ocean sea still can drown,
though the water now just floats as clouds.

I walk from my car, leave it unlocked.
I walk over scrub grass desperate for water.
I walk toward rocks painted by ancient hands.
I walk over fish, seaweed, dinosaurs, meteorites.
I walk into time made visible, layered and worn.
I walk until sunset when stars begin to burn my skin.

I get in the car, drive to the next town,
find a motel and watch a ballgame on TV.

—

I’m attempting NaPoWriMo again. As usual only stones on the weekends. This year I also plan to write about one poetry collection per week, probably on Fridays. Let the madness begin.

James Brush

James Brush is a teacher and writer who lives in Austin, TX. He tries to get outside as much as possible.

coyotemercury.com