When I drive through this unfinished landscape of space and sky,
I am told that the wildflowers will bloom later upon the fingers of the saguaros when the monsoon rains come
Their arms reaching to the stars with the soft desert wind blowing past, like the soft whisper of a woman in your ear.
I see the gray green saguaros with their bodies like anchored legs looking like some form of a Martian forest,
Alien and yet beautiful.
In my own head I thought the universe was my own
For no other voice I heard aloud,
I was completely alone
All of the thoughts in my mind were only proud.
No friendly hand approached me
they were pushed away by force.
The last notes of Springsteen fade away on the FM Radio,
the Cadillac black as midnight coal pulls in front of a melancholy, light gray looking shack with paint peeling and windows as dirty as a rusty cage
the crack! and snap! of rounds go off over yonder beyond the hill
and my uncle with his dark blue t shirt and red Phillies cap lugs the immense black vault of a gun case toward the open door.
We shared the bench,
We shared the keys,
We shared the music
That floated through the room.
Covered in sweatshirts, sweaters, and scarves
We played the duet.
On my face, they pat and powder and in my hair, they puff and pull.
I am the barbie doll they wrapped their sticky hands around as a child
Bending the legs, mangling the arms, stabbing the eyes.
Like a soldier, I am trained and programmed.
I am to point the gun at the strong, smart, and skilled
So I can appear
Strong. Smart. and Skilled.
Frosting-smeared, rosy-bubble cheeks.
Squeaky clean thumbs doused in saliva
To lick clean the evidence.
Sparkling-glass, bullseye-target eyes.
Packed-full stomachs of chemically threaded
Vanilla cake and chocolate pudding filling.
Meet Doctor Martin Daitch.
May his corporeal presence regard your, image
As you share the sterile, senior home air.
Enjoy the brief conversation, and watch him turn on his pillow
To his constant companion, Turner Classic Movies.
Butters Bakery, near the center of town.
But wait, is it Farmer in the Dell?
Breadwinners was its name before those owners sold it
But I do wonder why at there, really anywhere,
Bakeries never ever sell
When Mette a awoke from her morning rest
(For night before four was no sleeping time)
She poured out a glass of some kind of drink.
What kind? Didn’t matter, her throat had felt dry.
And she grabbed the last pop-tart, eating it cold,
But when going to dress, she tried to look nice.