January, Las Vegas, New Mexico

Frozen dust spackles
my window corners,
winds scrape gray clouds
against a blunt steel box
meant for hauling rodeo steer.

The only colors bleed
from spray paint canisters,
leftover graffiti lunch
those dark-smiled boys
eat in boredom.

I want sunfire,
Long Island ice teas
in anything other
than depression-era glass.

My boys iron
wobbly cursive essays
on scarred oak desks.

I wait for school's end,
one leg bent under my body
in a tired woman's asana,
torso tipped toward April.