i pause in the west
with gas pump in hand
feeling the sand kick up
against my white tee
and the wind whip
my coif of bed head
staring off at the frosty white heads
of sentinel mountain peaks

would that she could see these
floats across the fluid of my brain
with a metal clang the pump
announces it has belched its fill

would that she were here
follows slow and somber
with printing receipt

another chance
begins a rainfall in my mind
that will not cease
until each inch is soaked