By Brad Rose
My clothes are exhausted. I’d like to throw myself out. I don’t need a second opinion. All those buildings in town, under so much pressure – wind, sandstorms, earthquakes. They lie to themselves about their strength. If the clouds moved any faster, the hawks wouldn’t stand a chance. And the fading trees—Willow, Acacia, Hackberry—thirsty in the August heat. Their roots desperately crawling toward the saltwater sea. Yesterday, from high up on the levy, I saw a body floating in what’s left of the river. There was no one to tell. I am my own future, until it’s too late.