Ginger skies and deserted roads were becoming too comforting.
My eyes, accustomed to these free paths and dessert fields,
saw nothing left within cities of the savage and barbaric.
It was my way now; my ol’ 54 and I,
never putting out or giving in to nothin’
and still remaining a woman.
The drifting Texas sand scratched my skin, burnt
from the death and rebirth of a crimson sun.
My complexion was no longer untouched porcelain,
but only pealing nail beds, cracked hands and traveled feet,
now a dry leather, weathered
by way of the wind.
I’d been on the road for 23 days now.
What started as a brief escape from a dull livin’
was becoming an everlasting journey to the dark side.
I was now within a small suitcase, a guitar,
fueled by cigarettes and the occasional drink
and not ever goin’ back.
It’s been almost 52 hours since I last had a hot meal.
I had to pull over, the moans of my stomach
were warning me I was on my last leg.
This is going to be a problem.
I hadn’t seen a gas station or men in Sombrero’s
selling Pico de Gallo invested with Loew
for almost 6 hours.
I wasn’t worried.
A drifter like me cares not for hunger.
Then I noticed I was low on cigarettes, time to curb it.
After a couple detours down some dirt roads,
over softened hills who grew strands of sanded hair
when the wind would gust through the valley
with a piercing sound of childhood screams,
I found a place.
A small roadside diner with worn pink painted brick,
coffee stained colored draperies,
a fluorescent flicker that read “Mexican American food.”
No name, just a red wooden sign that said “Diner.”
I put ‘er in park, looked at the nothing surrounding me
and started walkin’ towards the place.
The growling of my hunger
was even interrupted by a traveling tumble weed,
I laughed at the cliché,
Dean would have loved that.
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