Mirage by Darla McBryde

Her morning hands drape
the sun as she drives toward dawn
thinking about Frankie,
did he lie there listening to cars rushing past
that last night under the bayou bridge,
knowing they painted a snaking trail
of glowing blood in the mist?
Cold black wings gather above
the diner on Telephone Road ,
chattering last night’s news,
waiting for warmth.
One deadly turn and the heart lands lost,
searching for some homeless saint
to bless the desert highway
with a merciful mirage
where Frankie laughs and dances
on creosote flats by the brackish water,
crazy Pecos moon overhead
Here, this steely Houston sky is sullen,
threatening the sting of sleet
and these streets are nothing but
calloused chunks of concrete.
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