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| Duster Blues |
| The old Coca-Cola sign creaks in the duster as he plunges fists deep in pockets, clenched tight like stones, like Pa's. He laughs in the whirling sand. Probably catch it for the dirt rising in the air. It was always in the air. Getting a little mud at the eye corners. Put on the monster face of I don't care. Stare at bleached boards like his soul, curling from the nails, hard-pounded. The shack would stand to the yellow sand, and Pa would swallow grit from bottle mouths. Like the desert, lean and mean he would say. He kicked the sand hard with his legs stinging from yesterday's dance with Pa. Dance with the leather and shouts. He let some dust creep in his mouth. Tasted blood on chapped lips he chewed. He'd let the desert in a few steps and try not to be the bonehead Pa would cough out. Night was coming in blacks and blues. He would stand and fall in the beer and dust. He wished he could change that he was born, or settle unbroken in the fading dunes. � 2000 DPMcClellan |
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