Nothing’s moving in the dawn’s early light
except that grey wolf on the tracks. Utah
trains hurtle cold from night frosting the dawn.
Day and dollar rise. Lust is a machine,
she feeds on flesh. Trickles of nickels and dimes
and quarters flow where the hoard of gold ties
yellow ribbon bows on skeletons of dreams
bleaching in the deserts of Afghanistan.
Howling into her thirty seventh year,
hammering the Arizona blacktop
in his red corvette with the chromium grin,
perfume, leather hide. America’s bride
is single now, deceived and sacrificed
by the shimmering eye in the greenback.
Copyright © Des Dillon 2014
Des Dillon is a Scottish writer. He has had three poetry collection published, and is currently writing a series of sonnets.