While Buzzards Soar

Bundled in the shade of a no horse town,
my shoulders itch with bites and a coarse blanket
woven from hype and holiday brochures. My eyes
carry clouds with Latin names, declaimed by geeks
and meteorologists, lexicographers of the mundane.

Reflected in spoons, the weather’s the wrong shape,
scuffing the scorch of a high sun blistering
miles of abandoned tarmac, tough as armadillos,
unforgiving as a dead-eyed rattler,
warping through endless cacti-scratched haze.

I consider my options in small change, worthless
coins with neither heads nor tails. Maybe
I’ll shave my head, burn my city clothes.