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They took the man, just there,
from the little market in Gila Bend,

just down from the blue spaceship
motel and the A & W selling ice cream

and air conditioning. Like the man,
we had stopped for soda and gasoline,

to stretch and piss. His shuttle to Yuma
sat next to a van of Baptists eating soft serve.

I paced the front border of the store
with the baby in my arms, his small fingers

reaching out to touch the sundials and saguaros,
the plastic gnomes for sale.

The man sipped his soda and chewed ice cubes
with his Yankees cap stuffed neatly between his trousers,

watching as the others passed licenses and carefully
repeating the words Dateland, Sentinel, and San Diego.

He checked his watch, his shoulders back and down,
the cap low slung in defeat, before he disappeared

into an armored green truck. That afternoon, I napped
in the little holiday house we had rented on Mission Beach,

but still had no appetite at dinner.

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