Palm Desert.

You are flesh and bones
and dusty roads,
I am a small pebble
in your steel toe boots,
a desert prickly pear.

You are a worn old Buick
dirt caked tires,
and your voice
a warm whiskey —

with a hint of sarsaparilla.

You are Dusty Springfield spooky,
the desert wind
has me under its spell
and you are freedom.

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