The baggage of a lifetime’s in a truck
Whose dark exhaust makes hellclouds when it stops
And stings the eyes and lungs of rearguards. “****!”
Says driver Ed. “Someone might call the cops.”
“Step on the gas,” says Davis, riding shotgun.
“Let’s take the lead. My asthma might kick in.”
A dancing advertisement in a lot spun
His sign, and yelled “Hey, Smokey!” with a grin.
i make my home in metropolitan phoenix, arizona/also known as the valley of the sun
one day i flew home from boulder, colorado,/which was lush and green/and it struck me that by comparison/phoenix was like the bottom of an ashtray
you will find green on some golf courses/and some lushly maintained gated communities/but the mountains trap the pollution in a sprawling shallow bowl/and a hike up piestewa peak will reveal/the thin soup we breathe
i love my valley anyway/and my own hair has turned quite gray/and it does not make me too blue/to think that I’m an ashtray too
One with Clay, Image and Text 