I am

I am the Greyhound bus
heading nightward
south on Route 66
dragging stars and children.

I reach into black sky
like it was my back pocket
produce a handkerchief
to wipe the nose of day.

I am unafraid of the miles
that I swallow, how they might
make my rear end grow –
add that curvy hill to my waistline.

I am overheating, let off
all kinds of thick fumes
above the tarmac, smoke
that will call the horned lizards

out of the desert
to the road
where they will gaze
after my trail

test the heat of blackness
before I am only
a faraway memory, something
their ancestors wrote about

on cave walls
something that drew the line
separating night and day,
sand from skin
transformed desire into pain.

I am the sweat
on your brow
the tears of all those women
you no longer love.