It's always too late.

Segments of a battered American landscape.  Deming, New Mexico.

I had arrived after aimless wandering.  The hot streets gave up illusory bending air.  I pulled my car into a nearby parking lot to check the folded map resting on my passenger seat.  After getting out to survey the terrain, I noticed a pool.  I decided against a proper swim.  Dry, dead grasses and still-living aloe sprung up from the earth.  A marker along the pool walls said eight and one-half feet.  Nearby, a man stood in only a burgundy bathrobe and light blue slippers.  In his hand he gripped a stringless tennis racket.

“New York?”  he said.  ”Long ways from home.”

An eaten black bean burrito’s tinfoil sat balled up in the sun of my dashboard.  I smiled, lifting my shoulders.