Dust Devil Days
A parched wind
still circles the dust devils
corralling them
in funneled fury.
The old rooster
atop the barn
squeaks
as the weather changes
as do the joints
in the old blue jeans.
Hard black coffee
bubbles on the stove,
her apron hangs
a memory
on the chair,
an old screen door
shudders,
slams shut,
an old dog curses
the dust.
Bowed heads watch
as he laces his boots,
reaches for that
damned hat,
sips the last of the coffee
runs his fingers
across the hanging apron
whispers
“I love you”,
sets off to worship
in the shrine
of their lives.
©5/7/2018
for Laura Loo – Best Free Verse Poem In May 2018 Poetry Contest
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