DRIVING THROUGH THE MOJAVE DESERT -

(for Bill and Patricia)

The bald, beige scrub spreads out for miles and miles.

We see the occasional thirsty trees

And the run-down impoverished homesteads.

It’s a wasteland for tired tourists’ eyes,

For truckers steering long hauls through the day.
The mountains as lyrical as sand dunes—

The endless sprawling deadness of it all.

We speed down the tarred road, slicing landscape

That’s dried out to its depths, useless as rust.

The strange beauty of great nature’s despair,

Barren narrative, the mind’s sleeping Blues

Yet there’s a motel, a station for gas,

As the traffic, both ways, goes passing through:

Home, the destination, colours our thoughts

In this place that’s as desolate as Mars

The persistent sun has debased its growth.

There is not a single bird in the sky:

The sky has accepted the settled dust.

Now and again, we see cacti standing

Like naked scarecrows, a bunch of boulders

As big as cars and close to the roadside.

We stop for rest rooms and refreshing drinks.

We feel the furnace-blast of heated air,

98 degrees, as we leave the car.

After the break, we hit the road again,

With hours of desert miles to unfold,

Having left Las Vegas all to itself:

A garish city of such fake splendour.

In seated weariness and in silence,

We make our way to far Monterey.

Published in GARDEN OF CLOUDS/NEW AND SELECTED POEMS by Peter Thabit Jones, 2020

DRIVING THROUGH THE MOJAVE DESERT