Needles at Three — a prose poem

Pinterest

Been coming down since Flagstaff.

My empty gallon water jugs outnumber
the full ones in the back seat of the Rabbit.
God what was I thinking when I bought
this car without air conditioning?
Tint doesn’t help, moon roof doesn’t help.

Wind out of an oven getting
hotter as I approach California.
The lizard in the passenger seat is laughing,
voice on a lonely radio station whispers
“Go back! Go back!”
Vulture on my headrest pecks my shoulder
mocks my inner madness
“Too late!  Too late!”

Needles appears – a mirage.

Has to be Death Valley —
Ron Reagan driving a twenty mule team wagon…
where’d that come from?

The motel is my white flag moment.
I ask the desk clerk
“When is the coolest time to travel?”
She says, “December.”

I’m sure that isn’t what I meant.

At the pool in the shade
thermometer pushing one-one-five.
I squint — yep, Fahrenheit.
Lizard is kicked back on an air mattress
sipping a sissy drink, smiling,
“So, how ya liking the desert?”

Three in the morning
motel AC drives me
out into the night
time to press onward.

Thermometer at the pool says one-one-eight.
Lizard calls out, “¡Adiós! Enjoy your trip.”

All the way to LA I repeat my mantra
“It’s only the heat.  Only the heat.  Only the heat.”