Sally Molini
High Desert Drive

Thirty miles away, inertia
has claimed the cabin,
a few lines scrawled
and left to themselves.
Porch paint curled up in spots
revealed nothing new —
a yard full of skunk, yucca and the sky's
blank page, unattainable reservoir
of shadow along the rocks. 
No destination, just the road's
constant arrival and a black
bull standing by a hay shed —
another sign telling me
what I already know.  U-turn
in a Joshua grove,
the trees' twisted arms reaching
to console as the a/c breaks down,
empty of direction.