Two boxers under the big white moon
One human too
We walk gravel roads
Where there is no grass
No green
It's all dirt
That's the way it is.
Winds blow
Nothing stays clean
It's a dusty world
Harvest time
For cutting off wheat heads
Leaving the straw in the ground
For later days
To make hay from
Or burn
Then plow back into the soil.
There are no trees here
It's a cement jungle
With 40 air conditioners
Pumping out hot air
Trying to make rooms cool
While the outside
Fries
Like bubble gum
In the sun
Sticky, icky, yucky
It glues itself to the bottom
On your flip flops
You go on anyway
Trying not to cuss
About it
Or at least
Only swear under your breath.
That is
Until the full moon comes out
To play
The cooler wind comes
As darkness does it's dance
Across the land
Holding your hand
As you hold the bodies of those boxers
Both looking for a moment of peace
Amongst the black top
Except you stay to the gravel
As they want to run in the dirt of the fields
It's a new life here
I am coping the best I can
Under the full moon.
