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.