Poetry Boot Camp – Generations

March 11, 2010 § 7 Comments

 




I squat behind the cedar tree and piss
    a pale amber stream. Thin sharp
    grasses tickle my ass and
muffled highway sounds keep me company.

The puddle creates a gentle path
    through the desert landscape
    and ends in a tiny pool.
It’s the only natural liquid for miles.

This urine is the best of me: cellular, private, a changeling.
Today it sings of French Roast and breakfast tacos.
A hint of last night’s chocolate shades its tone.

My essence joins what came before:
    generations of hardy stock – travelers
    West – the bison, and the skunk.
The arroyo inhales, and we are gone.

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