Desert Lover

Desert Lover


Walking through

the alleys of old Bisbee,

I thought I saw

the ghost of an ex-junkie


who captured my attention

in these same streets,

twenty-three years ago.


A face like Richard Gere’s—

eyes wandering

inward, as if bored.


Cheap boots caked

with layers of dust,

probably given to him

by an ex-girlfriend.


Always, his shrill fixation

on his one

great achievement:


a novel picked up by a

major publisher, then

out of print

five years later,


with no further plans

for distribution.


His inability to stay in bed

for more than an hour

after sex. And, most of all,


his uncanny communication

with extraterrestrials,


who somehow couldn’t

keep their hands

off his genitals.


Who could blame them?

Neither could I.

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