In the desert
we wear tinfoil caps
As it grows warmer
The beads spill down our faces
bits of a rock salt rosary
Breaks are taken
when it rains
for sand dune novenas
We drink and pray to mosaics
made eyeless by white sand
sandblasted by lattice waves
Light congregates
on each man's head
from one altitude to the next
above and below
endlessly
I always drive
with one eye
on the fuel-gauge.
Even when I've
just filled 'er up,
I have to double check
to make sure
those ten gallons
of regular
didn't disappear
into thin air.
And when the needle
hovers about the quarter mark,
panic sets in.
What if every gas station
within fifty miles
is closed because
of a death in the family?
I've this fear
of stalling-out on the highway
or coming up empty
on a lonely strip of desert road.
Of course,
there's more likelihood
of me winning the lottery
than of that happening.
That's why I'm
afraid of winning the lottery.
Who knows what that does
to the odds.
