My dad drove by, picking me up from school.
His ford Mustang just reached its twentieth year,
And is peeling along the side

It makes a roaring sound as we fire it up and speeds off with the smell of exhaust.
The top goes down, black canvas that folds neatly into the trunk.
That’s how we ride. With the top down and wind
Through our hair, blowing his hat and my headband into the back seat.
Losing things is always a hazard.

We drive until we reach a rusty sign
And hanging brown streetlights on their last gasp.
I can see white porches and picket fences,
And rocker chairs on the sides.

But we don’t stop here.
We keep on driving, tuning the radio to old country songs
And drive on, watching as stores give way to houses,
Houses to cottages, cottages to shacks, shacks to land, land to desert.
And we’re in the middle of nowhere, on a dirt road that stretches off into the distance
Surrounded by cacti and dirt

The wind is dry and hot, and I feel my mouth watering.
We step out and watch as the sun goes down,
Down below the horizon,
Watching as the last rays shine red and light up the sand like a glowing candle

Sunsets are best in the desert.