Sadlands

In the backyard

Rust-bus sits hidden,

White powdery tires wait.

Stressed and dry. Faces and facades. Dust and cinderblocks.

Sadlands.

Zig-zags,

Impregnated with dirt-weed.

Bleary eyes dartingly dodge.

Smoke plumes rise.

Sadlands.

Skateboard rolls, tail scrapes, kicks up on concrete.

Pop! One instant of metal on cement.

Urethane away.

Sadlands.

He remembers it all strangely.

He remembers the beating

Of the poor Shepard –

The lone smoothness of the tall cowboy ceramic.

He remembers the pungent odor of

Cockatiel-Dorito-Winston-lights.

Sadlands.