Bicycling the frontage road on my way home from work,
I admired an old Volvo wagon with a wooden dashboard.
I could see myself whizzing up mountain roads listening
to the stereo, then crawling in the back to sleep.
It was a car with endless possibilities.

Sitting beneath the mesquite, I see them drive up in a truck.
The man tells me he lived here when he was a boy. Points to the
old shack where I store my bike. I encourage them to walk around
the property. The father leads the way. He feels the rotting wood

Phil runs in the yard with a clear mixing bowl on his head.
No clothes. No shoes. Just a mixing bowl. He carries a big butcher
knife and runs circles, endless circles, waiting for an animal to gut.