Turned the ignition in the car, hot in the afternoon sun
Stones blaring, yeah, what is my name?
Thought he was in the backseat until the bump
Itâ€™s true, I am to blame.
Pink hollyhocks burst against an adobe wall.
A ladder to nowhere casts haphazard shadows.
Sagebrush guards the well; her black door becomes a window, becomes an eye, becomes a gate to the faraway.
Coughing comes first. Shuffling down the hallway. “Mommy, I can’t sleep,” he cry-whines. “Sorry, pumpkin,” I soothe, lifting him up to loop back to the kitchen for honey.