At the Furnace Creek Gas Station

 

Desert Gold.JPG

 

 

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

three-quarter ton

crew-cab GMC,

while the old boy on the other side of the island

pumps diesel into his

one-ton

Power-Stroke Ford

both of us bitching about the price,

when he up and says he’s from

Connecticut

and this is his last trip,

anyhow.

 

He is dying, maybe.

 

Death Valley ignores him,

as its wildflowers:

desert gold, crimson cactus,

purple phacelia, desert five-spot

spill down

steep slopes

of the Funeral Mountains.

Published by

sanberdooboy

I've been writing mostly poetry for many years and have gotten a number of works accepted in publications and anthologies. I'm most interested in communicating with poets for whom craft is a high priority. I enjoy finding and commenting on poetic gems in other people's work. For my own work, I welcome polite comments, whether positive or critical.

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