a dusty southern road

filled with food and sitting
at the edge of the road
staring bleakly into
a sodden, lonely red sun
dipping into a late autumn
cloud bank.

a shadow plays
across the pavement
at your feet,
an orange joker
jumps from branch to branch
twisting the late
evening rays
into slow syrup.

there is pale southern
molasses in the air
breathe it in slowly too,
it fills your lungs,
slow and full,
you can feel your ribs strain
trying to keep
it all in.

someone next door
has put on a tom waits
record; scratchy, broken,
the needle scraping
at an edge,
brawlers lifted into the air.

you look lonesome,
as you stretch your legs
and lean back
to watch the leaves
of the southern live oak tree
flutter in the evening breeze.

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