Wide Spot Fever

There's a wind in the desert
that walks the highway hitching for a ride.
Powerful, it scratches at my face as I hunker to avoid the furnace.

Here the road leads to the sky in any direction as pondering
the way to destruction or redemption folly the travelers
halt at our roadside attraction.

Pure. Dry. Hot.

The reasons which brought us basking to this spot don't matter
but it is the purity which keeps us. Petrified.

No sooner do we haul out our conveyance but that hand which
made the Eskimo squat upon his frozen rock weighs our shoulders
to the shaded chair. It advises our unrelenting flop.

Yes, we have beer. Gas. Lodging.

Don't get too close to the bin, it's got baby rattlers within.

Stuart Andrew Marshall Tanner