The Rest of Us
This desert is full of ghosts.
You can see them squat
by the side of the road,
adobe baked in their own ovens,
outposts of another time, a different
when, stripped down to withered
husks that hold whispers, remnants
of old lives, of those who moved on
after the highway’s migration
changed traffic’s path, changed everything.
Yet some witnesses remain:
a few locals, coyotes,
and the mesas that haunch against
the night as it sets in,
they might sometimes pay attention,
turning purple in the distance
as they hold their breath
for the rest of us.