Suburban Trek

                        Beware       when desert stars hang heavy in the night.                  When dark canopy sags                         like an                       unused udder               and prickly light drags deep,                       illuminating       the soul's cacti and the mesquite's rough bark.                     The shadows of stars                             have                              no                             pity,                        their black sum       an ooze filling the mind's ruts and blocking flight.                              You,                      the shadows accuse,               you have not accomplished enough,                           won enough,                              done                             enough.            The earth turns with a stifling slowness,                        fueled by my sighs,                     or perhaps slowed by them.                                I                        don't know which.                            I do know            that the porch light seems an eternity away,                         and that tomorrow              the damned garbage goes out before dark.