The Desert Man Anthem

There's an old man.
He loves cinnabons.
He watches The Price Is Right
While clipping coupons
For antacids.
His kitchen is green
Where he cooks nachos
For watching the PGA tour.
His face is unshaven
And worn but not crinkled.
He speeds
In his yellow Volkswagen
On his way to church.
But he changes his mind
And drives to visit a friend.
She is short and fat
Looking the part of a fortune cookie
Brown and bland
With undistinguished elegance.
Her turquoise slippers
Are molded around her feet
And caked in dirt.
She shuffles.
Her knees are shot
Her skin is thin
Dark tissue paper
But blood pulses stronger than ever.

The screen door creaks open.
A daddy long legs scurries inside
Past her feet and
Across the leaves
Littering her doorway
Unsweepen for countless ages.
Her face brightens and the skin
Under her eyes
Pulls taut with surprise.

Ushering him in with knotted hands
He catches a whiff of stale air
Morning's oatmeal.
No honey
She isn't fond of bees
No raisons
She isn't fond of herself.
Shoes make a yad, yad, yad
On the carpet
Over the unpolished
Creaking wood.
How are the children.
Fine.
Oh that's Fine.
They're prospering in the city
Away from these flower-filled meadows
That carry hushed beckonings
From long ago.