by Lisa Zaran
~for robert john
I love to drive, he said,
as he came crawling toward me
across a desert floor, burrs in both of his knees,
a dead star caught in his long, gray hair.
I feel used, he said,
and old as usual.
I believe I'm at the height of my existence.
At once exhausted, he lays himself at my feet.
I begin combing the nests out of his hair,
scraping the dirt away from beneath his fingernails.
Kissing his sad and lonesome cheek.
His breath comes in white gusts of wind,
snowflakes fill the air.
Last updated March 29, 2011