17

3 am over the pass, I’m pushing my

dad’s car to 80, the defrosters pant to keep

alive; big sweaty dogs, they cannot keep up

with me. Call me Bite My Dust, the

6:5 favorite, took Billy the Kid by a quarter

of inch in the final stretch, 2,200 pounds of

evolution in my ear. I left you at the gate, you

were naked, ivory skin in the canyons of

your comforter. I spilled water as I left,

tried not to wake you as I went to clean it;

it will be the biggest deal until tax returns

and terminal illness. I’m on a race back to

those valley lights; to the only stars I know.

If this is what living is, I’ll take 6:5 every time.