Handkerchief to nose,
I cross these dusty streets
the wind whipping my gingham dress
around my legs.
My son carries his frosty bottle
of orange Nehi pop
while my daughter hugs her dolly
close to her chest.
We struggle, nomads fighting
the swirling whorls of sand
trying to keep the dust
out of our eyes.
When the wind settles again
I can see the barren lands
surrounding our tiny town -
Hopeful skeletons.
The farmers playing checkers
in front of the gas station
grumble about the price of corn
and their souls. |
