Written: 5/5/2025

The ominous wind blew into my lungs again.
"Here's your crown, king of the call centers again!"
Las Cruces proclaims to this insubordinate ant;
as I reach back to Phoenix
with cold crackling hands.
We are blind, my wife & I
awaiting this fog to dissipate it's settings.
This civilization in distressing woes;
where locust moths here eat up all financial blessings.
But in our grief the future things bloom, as
I held in thought God's light on the
empty tomb.
Man-made hope comes in breakable triangles
and hangs on mortal suspense but in
lowest terms the call center pays the rent.