In Arizona
Take the rounding road west
Of Old Tucson, after the mock gunfight at high noon,
And stop at the Point where the
Grand Sonoran Desert is at its best-
I have scoured that desert
And found things stranger than arrowheads and old cans of A-1 Beer: seashells.
What is that?
Testimony to a forgotten time quite differing. Now the dark desert pavement,
Hardened by the harshest of heat there is,
Is underfoot, and Bigelow's Accursed chollas,
Looking like teddy bears,
Are poised to get you.
Rattlesnakes abound. There is something in the air, the smell of misfortune and ghastly death,
Around the corners of abandoned shacks, hanging black widows,
Broken window panes,
Ghost towns,
Where even the glass
Seems to melt
In your hands.
poem by Stan Petrovich
Added by Poetry Lover
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