The Drive from St. George to Mesquite

is an hour and a half of tensed nerves,
knotted stomach,
of fantasies filling the arid void,
chambers of loaned,

and parts of Arizona.

May well be my last voyage here

alone.
No sense of self;
no sense of home,
now. Tonight

cast frustrations in the river valley with
the lot of them.
Tee-off in case

saints and their mothers get the shakes.
The heavy-laden palm of straddling knowing and yet still wanting
holds me at the table.