his phone died on a Wednesday
out in the scorching country
wind howling ferociously
through dead tree trunks
and the sand followed its lead
in this clanging dance.
and as he pulled over
a mile’s drive in
in the hope that
his slithering truck would heal
coughing up from thirst and ennervation
from the scorching sun
that made him seem to go insane.
silence and static emanating radio;
a deadly combination
for one who’d just skipped town
like an asshole outlaw
“run.”
“just run.”
“pick somewhere and just run.”
these were the words that echoed
from the back of his mind
and made their way front and center
took centerstage and eventually consumed him
fueled with dreams;
of time machines
to correct life altering mistakes
of justice systems and underlining names in red,
crossing them out while hoping karma does its due diligence,
dreams of sidestepping shiny pennies on the ground;
perhaps superstition doesn’t sound so bad.

* * *

the sand is still
the wind is quiet
tears have been wept
a maroon sky turns into a blood moon-lit midnight
and this is when he meets himself.

📸: Chris Barbalis