The days are numbered.
At the edge of the world,
A rest stop offering provisions for the apocalypse
Has become a gathering place for the lost souls
Who are set to embark on their eternal journey
Across the state line.
Harbors them to safety in her Model T,
In a café,
Sitting opposite a western banded gecko
Gets drunk on straight bourbon
And laughs maniacally,
High on the fallout from the atomic testing done here
Over sixty years ago.
Monsoon season in Arizona
Includes a downpour of vinegaroons,
Blackening the sky and littering the red earth
With legs, pincers, and carapaces.
Wandering aimlessly across the Sonoran Desert,
The mournful cry of a coyote
Reaches my ears
As do the horns of the freight trains
Which rumble through the night like summer thunder.
Bumming it in a boxcar,
I watch America zip by outside the open door,
All the while wondering what has become
Of the Dream.
© Chester Sakamoto