Baby Wears Wayfarers

Nothing but dirt out here
Cracked dry roads and Dairy Queens
And half-naked trees
And church bells
And cows, lots of cows
And hash browns
And hair-dos
And men who drive rigs
And their women
Who best not ask why
Who best have dinner on the table
Who best fix their eyes forward
Always forward, never back

Landlocked.

California perched
On the bridge of her nose
The scent of salt, the cry of gulls
The endless heaving blue blue blue
Hidden behind
Black glass.