Dear Bubba

You let me down Bubba.
I see you in passing clouds, like the ink blots,
no storm, just that hot muggy feeling 
and familiar distance.

I followed your weather map.  It took me to the desert and I was among the heat and junipers.  Alone.

I would have quit smoking, drinking and even waited at the DMV for you.  Sometimes, when I'm sitting on the back porch here, in Kansas City, drinking a tall can of PBR, smoking a clove at dusk - I might even be glad I didn't.