This poem relates an incident as I experienced it. Because of its name and the amazing changes it undergoes through the seasons, Death Valley has often inspired me.
At the Furnace Creek Gas Station…
I pump diesel into my
while the old boy on the other side of the island
pumps diesel into his
both of us bitching about the price,
when he up and says he’s from
and this is his last trip,
He is dying, maybe.
Death Valley ignores him,
as its wildflowers:
desert gold, crimson cactus,
purple phacelia, desert five-spot
of the Funeral Mountains.