I'd always found those tattered palm trees
Slightly comforting in that ugly little place
With its faded lottery signs, battered antique pickups,
And dark, musty bar by the brown-edged golf course
Made intermittent green by irrigation.
Between Joshua trees and the Virgin,
One could imagine a hermitage would make more sense,
Rather than that effort at monetized fun in the sun,
But even this muggy morning, when it was too hot
For anyone to want to escape there to recreate
And only one tall, muscular young man with a shaved head,
Wearing basketball shorts, a tank-tee, and track shoes,
Was at the counter, laying out hundreds in twenties
To buy folded wads of scratch-offs that he carried out
In both fists, stumbling over a poster board for tequila,
I had a good feeling and bought a small packet
Of lemon wafers for the drive back to work
Through the gorge on my birthday.
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