by Rose LaCroix
Beyond the gutter where the last drunk lays,
Beyond the last broken bottle,
Beyond the last broken heart,
Who gave up twenty years ago;
Beyond the last tortured neon tube,
Beyond the last stolen car,
Beyond the last condemned hotel,
Where Elvis used to shit;
Beyond the last cigarette machine,
Beyond the noxious stench of stale beer,
Beyond the worn carpet on the drum riser,
Where no-name bands play;
Let me raise up a shrill song of joy,
To the silver-dollar moon
And the green desert pool
And the joshua tree.
I lived in Nevada once.
The parts without people were nice at least.