A gas tank nearing empty and disdain that can’t be controlled, you fold

Pulled by the desert’s cold into a bar saturated with stovetop grease

Your expertise is in affliction and in marrow of the diseased

See the booths empty but one, a girl

She asks if you’ve seen her father

Don’t bother, she’ll stay, tell her what’s dry will also decay

Her eyes are dark

Mocha like your skin

She’s seen places you’ve been

People watching from the corner

You warn her of the forfeiture

That comes with waiting

The desert’s cold remains pervading

She’s paused, debating

If she’s been set free

Or is still escaping