June 11, 1997

I turn forty (three more
years left in this century)
and they are paving the
pink dusty road to the dump.
That road’s been
in my blood now four
decades. These last two
to the tune of twice a month,
periods of twice a week.
A silent trip for 2
usually (tho many times for
me alone) such a trip
would end a day or a week’s
work and end up with
a tidier yard and
a lot of dust in my belt.

Small round grey blue plants
can touch the sky out here on the west mesa.
When the wind picks up
comes along
they’re suited to its
rough & tumble.

Across the road the ten
year old subdivision trees
sway over as if to break with this west wind.
The houses and the yards
grit in their teeth
the people who moved here
must be mad
they’ll be asking the county to
pave more roads.

Today it’s me & C.B.,
Tiger swallowtail butterfly in our path,
kestrel atop road sign.
We stopped loading weeds midway
and left in a rush w/only half
a truck load cause she
got her first red ant bite
and was going crazy with
her stung foot.
Out on the road she was
distracted by some cold chocolate vanilla
swirl and by the time we
got into Rio Rancho she was
konked out in her car seat.

Me alone pulling weed tangle into the soft pink sand
wind whipping dust around
big yellow bulldozers waiting for me to leave.

6-11-97