Desert Thumb
Blistered feet wander the desert
The hard air surrounds him
He's stuck in a cloud of dust
And sand
Dreams of winning the odds left behind
In his tracks
He turns and gestures out
A sunburnt thumb
All he receives is a light breeze
Air conditioning in the context
And he sips his canteen
In-between slitted lips
He presses on
A nomad with sweat hardened rags
Adorned with faded bands of the past
Holes in jean shorts he earned
Not manufactured
His dirty hair now a clean blonde
Ray bleached
He doesn't mind it out here
On the range
Where the deer and the antelope's
Dry bones stay
He's not alone
He's just avoiding the noisy crowds
The calm sound of vultures cry away
He can taste the chalk of the dry earth
Mother Nature needs a bath
Like that last line! One thought: Deserts aren’t humid, so that was a bit odd.
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