The widow sits with her back
to the wall,
wets her memories in vain
with the last drops
of a tequila bottle.

In the rooms above,
it’s too hot to sleep,
too hot to stay awake.
A woman in paper taffeta
counts bank notes
once, twice, three times,
then tosses them at her dozing pimp.
A truckload of men
and yet it’s his fat body she feels,
even now, atop hers.

A young couple shares a cigarette
on the banks of the near-dry riverbed.
When it burns down to the end,
the river does too.

The gas station
stays open
like a yawn.
The owner’s slumped
in his chair.
Few cars go by.
He half-hopes that none of them stop.

The Virgin Mary
sweats in the mission’s half-acre,
Nuns cool off
in the silence of their cells.

A lady in a fine dress of black lace
is the only one in the chapel.
Her dark hair glistens
in the stained-glass light.
Her red pumps tremble with prayer.