Father At Eighty

Looking down from the mountains,
I see the scalp of Indio, California
spread out before my lifelong mechanic hands.

Someone please bring me the envelope
so I can announce the winner
of my eighty year old heart.

I’ve chewed up the desert
into grains so fine
that I can’t see them anymore.

I’ve lost a wife and a son
to this burning heat
and cold and vile discomfort.

I’ve forgotten
all I’m ever going to forget
of junked Indian cars against sheds.

Of desert winds blowing
through doors and windows
as if they weren’t there or at least complicit.

I saddle the horse
and head into the canyon
until the words fall off me like tacklers.