09.07
I awoke to stillness and
the bag was dry,
the bottle was dry,
my hands were dry and
cracked like the desert floor;
there was an empty impression
next to me on the bed
there were pens left uncapped,
out to dry
in the open air;
what I needed now
was a friend, an
old-fashioned friend,
not someone to make
dry conversation with
but someone
I could sit next to
in perfect silence…
I finally got out of bed
stepped out the door
into the dry heat
to my dead grass
my dead cactus
and weeds, alive, well,
scattered around
like stray sheep.
Such is the tragedy of dryness,
dry bags, dry bottles,
dry skin, dry friends;
and when
I walked back inside,
I sighed, because there
was one again-
the dried skeleton
of a roach, right in
the front room,
and I sighed again
because this sun
has burnt out
both me and him.