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.