The heat of Las Cruces begins
somewhere
deep in the bones underground,
out near Mt. Robledo and ends
south of the border in the desierto looking
for a
better life.
As a kid, Douglas MacArthur
prowled the landscape with his toy
six-guns and mirror shades.
A beat pick-up truck
with Chihuahuan plates plows
through the midday dust
to Airstream heaven. The
Mexican food on Amador Avenue
is a miracle:
Tex-Mex cowboy with
a long history and
curled vaquero boots,
bent over his menudo,
says as much grace as he can
remember. I feel like
a guilty bystander while we both
finish our meals
in peace.
Responses to “Weekly Poem: A day in the life of Las Cruces”