Take me to where the tour bus is parked
And share your three day old bread.
I don’t care that the bus is empty
And that the seats are dusty and torn.
The sun can’t claw through the grimy
Windows. The heat is only an incentive.
While we bake in the shadows, Argentina
Breaks through a sudden frost, tangos
Budding like flowers through late freezes.
Hundreds of miles away and within,
We will break bread. California is soaked
And Texas swept by cool winds. Our hands
Simply tour our chins and collar bones,
The crumbs on our pants. Thirst imminent.
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