a goat farm
surrounded
by mesquite
across the highway from
an indian restaurant
combination
tire shop

forests of fiberglass
windmills
like white thorns
on the side of
squaw mountain
as jacksboro looms
in the distance

the worn yellow brick
inscribed with 1899
proudly displayed
in a snapshot taken
from the parking lot
of the dollar general
of scenic downtown

ranchers cattle and horses
stretch along the chisholm trail
in tiny bubbles
of a world untouched
by modern inconvenience
yet nestled
in convenient spectacle

automobile graveyards
wal-marts and
shuddered restaurants
line the winding highway
that is little more
than a two horse trail
through nowhere

a slice of the yellow rose
with wilted bud
in the glaring heat
of texas summer
where even the evening breeze
is more exhaust
from the devil’s kitchen.