A Poem by David Chorlton

Sunday Drive on Interstate 10

Dark clouds over pale mountains;
the sun breaks through
and shadows in the sky
shift back.
            Sparrows perch
along a power line, a horse
drinks from a trough,
a vulture rises from the dry
mesquite.
              The desert shopping
outlet stands in silence
without even a security guard
to protect its vacancy.
                                Windbreak
trees that withered in the sun
stand grey on a grey
day.
   Before and after
the San Diego turnoff
are billboards for the expensive resort;
for boots; for the adult boutique; and one
saying how to give up cigarettes
with another telling where
to buy them.
                 A cattle train
has stalled sixty wagons
long with a moan contained
in slatted steel,
                     while three
bold letters painted in white
on faded red say Vote for Van
for the Senate, although
there is no election
                          and nobody
knows Van.