Forty Mile Desert

A Poem

By day, a nurturing westward wind gives suck
To nascent twisters tracing languid lines
Through forty miles of waste. Each speeding truck,
Cocooned in cool, blurs past green highway signs.

By night, volcanic rocks are rearranged
On roadside hummocks. Teens spell out the names
Of love-locked sweethearts hastily exchanged,
While curious rabbits watch the midnight games.

Bygone, the farmers, miners—pioneers!—
Who toiled to cross dry lakes, half mad with thirst,
And stumbled o’er the sun-bleached bones of steers
To stake a claim for land, to be the first.

Once shone American temerity
Now atrophied by her prosperity.