He kicks up dust with his boot heels.
I watch the zigzagging contrails slice up the dark, blue sky with growing alarm.
My gypsy grandmother pokes through the rear passenger window.
Kim Kardashian’s DeLorean skims over the frosted waves.
I am seated beside a dictator in a diaper.
I watch the drone screens flying over the I-10.
A god caped with a Fleur-de-lis.
Yours is a soul with a brand.
O how I love Midsummer’s Night.
Your boot prints in virgin snow.