Their Death Is To Be Quenched

One of those afternoons when acrylic
Landscapes and beef jerky were being hawked
Roadside approaching Zion alongside
The Virgin in the spring, blooms everywhere,
Even among native desert flora,
Heat already tinting pollen-hazed air,
The kind of paradox-inducing day
When one's animal spirits, besotted
By the gloriousness all around them,
Even including the roadside vendors

Waving vigorously at all passers,
Start and blather, itching to go yonder
When it's the come-hither has stirred them up,
It occurred to the Compositor, why
Not just have a run of luck, live awhile
Longer than the foreseeable future?
It's when the passing present waves right back
That we think perhaps it will buy our truck.