Dry Mouth
By Nigel Stauffer
I was waiting by the river
waiting on my ride
kicked back
and leaning on a rusted out shell
of a kombi 1965.
The psychedelic wind blew
was warm and maybe a tad moist
and it blew in across the plains
that time,
and she blew in from the east.
The sun that day
on that Sunday
was typical
much like the last
if
I hadn’t noticed earlier
with all the moments
that make up the past
that the river
I wait beside
just now
was drier
then the last.
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