Poem Out of the Desert

Motel in the Desert

As we age, will passion fade
will it simply be a victim of complacency
like ice in a glass of whiskey

Whiskey!
Bourbon, neat.

Sitting alone in this motel
dry air, hot night
sketches
and paintings
and photographs
to my left and to my right.

A self-imposed exile
from my usual creative space
a need to re-charge
a need to get away
to find my center
and to overthink
and, of course, refill my drink.

[Age combined with ice
will not water it down
we are on the brink]

If it is miles or years or universes
in my heart and my head, my soul and my bed
you will have me in our way.
but now out here in the motel,
alone but not lonely
I wish that moment were here today.


fpr 8-7-09