The Next Morning In Fruita

These slabs of feet betray me-
Did coyotes gnaw on them
as I slept?
I smell raw meat and folgers.

I sit, steaming cup in hands,
sore joints licking the heat
in this fracked up town
of dinosaur bones and bike spokes.

The canyons cackle
beyond my motel room,
judging the stranger in my bed.

It’s whorishly hot here-
I grab my ice bucket
arch my back and pour,
soaking my body like Irene
in Flashdance.

Below a dog is tethered to wrought
iron, pulls again and again
desperate for freedom.