he lost count of the days
he's been walking
through this
desert
savvy enough
to stay in the shade when the sun is up
to know which cactus yields the most water
he gets through the days
with an unshakable resolve
to survive
but the nights . . .
stars look like grains of salt
around the rim of a margarita
the blackness behind them
looks like Guinness
he tries to lick his lips
but there is sand on his tongue
sand in his shoes
sand in his pants
and
he thinks
maybe even sand in his brain
it is a cold night in the desert
he can't think straight
and son-of-a-bitch
if the moon doesn't look like an olive
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