This, so desolate, from Kelly Farrell.
Maybe that’s all there is.
Maybe one day you walk out of the office heading for nowhere and end up here. Eye to eye with everything that’s left of Bessie the desert cow you never knew you cared about.
You waltzed out of the gas station, one brain cell on reality and the rest playfully baiting eternity, when three pairs of hands and a graying beard shove you into a rumbling cargo van.
Who knows really how long your face will remain plastered over crumbling brick walls and flashed ever sparingly across the bottom of nightly news screens.
Like Bessie it could already be long gone. A skeleton in some rattled detectives closet, only to be unearthed when ground is broken for that new shopping mall in ten years time.
For now you’re flung four feet deep with dirt and desert bugs collecting in the folds of your…
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