Lydia Armstrong

He goes racing through the desert
in a tin-can convertible
with gritty wind combing out
his tumbleweed hair
and I kept three four-leaf clovers
in the pages of Milan Kundera
although I forgot what the lightness was.
He dreamt of cocaine in his nostrils
and lining his briefcase
remembered the bellboy from
“fear and loathing”
and raced through Las Vegas.
The clovers were for you
so your desert sand voice
wouldn’t crack
and neither would your guitar
and when you sang my song
you looked away
and I looked inside
and saw how hopeless it all was.
Why even try?
Let the stone rain fall down
let your precious guitar
hit the concrete
let the roof grow pregnant with rain
let your hair out
and your breath in