jeans

i left my jeans in Barstow, California
tangled in a mess of linens at the Days Inn
the phone was a grimy tan thing from 1984
the desert is a dry place with lots of sand
it was an acquaintance calling back
he had something to do
i left the sliding window open after Uncle Cliff had left
he had sat in the chair across the room
next to the brown vanity with the double sink
i downed a foster from a gas station around the corner
it was huge and cold, handed to me in a paper bag
crawled into bed with my clothes on to make that call
i had nothing to say—he said he would call back
the jeans were off by that time
--desert air made me sleepy
fresh army recruits passed by my open window
we had the awkward silences awake
from a deep half hours’ sleep his voice
the desert is hot and dry and can be slippery
how the sand makes me feel how grass how california 
he has the thing he cannot name 
but it is like me and we talked about relationship
i know now  is the best way to end one
i imagined the maid finding them all tangled in the sheets
that was before she cleaned the tub and sink
folded em and put them on her death grey cart
how she pressed the bedspread with her hand
tugged the hanging parts til it was flat 
the desert is a dry place with lots of sand