Desert Afternoon
a prick
unfriendly as a box of dropped
tacks, points up in the dust
a squint, a tumbling wind
a scuttle, rattle, whirl, a glint
shadow crossed
and patient as a rock
twice baked to seeming sleep
heavy eyed half closed
but ready, waiting
with its startled bloom
to ask well what did you expect
and until then, content
to simply sit
and sit and sit
--smh