Ride with me my last known friend

and leave the directory behind,

no need to remember the numbers.

Just saddle up and buy us two sombreros.

The sun will burn hard, scorching persistent

memories: leaving us to it’s unrelenting mercies.

Into a desert together meandering aimlessly we will

ride, whistling tunes from the Saturday morning

pictures we saw at the cinema when we were boys

and looked at the arrows and gunshots skirting past

the rocks after the men visited the saloons where

powdered women shone from their lipstick as their

tassels waved above the fishnets. You and me alone

(wistful) in the desert storms oblivious to where we

wander, leaving the high roads we could not see and

the alleys beckoning to our youth. Just pack some

bottles of whatever so we can maybe hide again.

Michael Martinez 2021