Dst Poem by Robert Combs

high noon
and the sun is at eleven
changing shifts
in the desert...cactus spikes
litter the ground on seamy Sunset
out in Santa Monica they drive
convertibles with the a/c on
surrounded by a glass womb
and walk in Venice
up and down
over and back
blue agave sandwiches
jealous tendrils pushing
the boardwalk for room
among the t-shirts and bandanas
flying like a kite on a broken
string of indifferences
and attitude surrendered
to sleep inside those lost
insect ballets
an astral fountain play
stellar in projection
lost in the mystery

how can we save daylight