Warming to an industrial sweat
I request deft acceleration
To dismiss the car's lingering heat,
The obtuse angle of my arm
Sits ripe for melanoma
Jutting petulantly through the space
Where glass should have been
If air-con was alive and kicking.
A cliché of cactus march over the
Desert's reach. Were it not for the heat
I'd beg a stop for photographs,
Throw some stones, saunter in the scrub.
But we are flying South
Into cooler wind that announces the
Dog leg of the day and the
Promise of another foreign country.
