A long road, flat, hard,
dirt-strewn, and I
am already out of water.

My canteen's filled with dusty
stones from the bend by
the red brick schoolhouse

I passed a few years back.
The night is brief and I am
as white as the water-thin

moonbeams, a crumpled
piece of copy paper never scribbled on,
that bounces off the toenails peeking

out of my shoes. The cool watery
light offers no relief here in
my sun-baked pilgrimage.

Behind me are the dozens of city
lights that kept me sane for miles--
ahead is only the deep yellow sun,

and the threat of smoke.
No travelers join me here.
No lonely cur falls in step with me.

The crows even reject my
bones--I am not done yet.
At my feet, my empty canteen falls.