Along with the silvering of my hair
the years have gifted me
with a Frequent Wanderer Award
granting open access 
to the Mojave of Middle-Night,
where there are many
interesting places to meander
but there does not seem to be
a trailhead that leads back to sleep—
and though I could remedy the one
with gloves, a bottle of dye,
and the laundry room sink,
there seems to be no compass
to help me navigate the other.

For a long time I grumbled about this
and stumbled through too-much-coffee tired days,
but then, during one weary too-early,
I paused to watch a horned lizard
swishing tail, flicking tongue
near the base of a Joshua tree
and noticed the almost silent whisper
of a gestating poem,
stopped to play with her for a while,
and soon I was surrounded
by her many siblings, cousins, and rivals—
quite a lively little nursery
with a hungry baby sonnet I’d almost forgotten,
two toddling villanelles fighting over a yucca flower,
and a pantoum with sand in her eyes crying in the corner.

Middle-Nights now, when the Mojave calls,
I am ready, having indulged in another 
gift of the years, the afternoon nap.
I brew up a pot of cactus flower tea,
toss my tinseled hair over my shoulder,
grab my favorite pen,
and set out happily a’wandering.

are more than an hour late, 
and people are getting grumpy, cold, spaced-out, bored,
more than ready for the music, almost ready for a fight.

Way long line for the ladies’ room, 
tie dye hems dragging in the dust. 
The only vendor still open is the you’ve got to be kidding 
30-dollars-a-sandwich-and-fries.

Plastic cups, crushed, tossed not in but close enough, 
almost float in the foamy beer-mud around the trash can
where somebody put a Jerry Garcia sticker,
his young smile peeking out 
between raggedy pizza crust, folded paper plates, filthy French fries.

Don’t want to stay any longer, have had enough, 
don’t want to leave, what if the set turns out to be awesome, 
might be the best of the entire festival, who knows.

Meanwhile cars light up all over the parking lot;
some folks have decided, might be right.

We’ll give the band 20 minutes, see if they show.

Chocolate ice cream melts in my mouth,
sweeter for being forbidden.					
Never keep such treats in the house.
Chocolate ice cream, it melts—my mouth!
My diet plans have just gone south;
this digression must be hidden.
Chocolate… Ice cream melts in my mouth,
sweeter for being forbidden.