& exploding & all those cells mutating
& splitting & dying, I can’t seem to
Get any work done around here.
Those green mountains we hiked
Years ago now sit tiny & faded inside
A desert motel room’s painting, the
Highway outside cracked & freezing,
The bed shaking though no quarters
Have been inserted…or is that just me?
Someone might get hurt, you say,
Looking out the frosted, filthy window
& across creosote bush flatlands.
Way too late for that, I reply, staring
At a wall-bolted television, weather
Radar channel looping biblical rains
Lashing about the hinterlands, ponding
Upon my little league baseball field, filling
Those rusted buckets by the tool shed,
The one leaning towards our childhood
Pet cemetery – Beau, Sugarfoot, Ajax.