Oklahoma

When I left my cell phone on the porch
long enough to tie my shoes
and admire the wings of a butterfly,
blinding against the backdrop,
I knew why they called it the dust bowl.

Covered in a thin layer,
my touch screen seemed antiquated,
forgotten in a rush
of thirties survival adrenaline.
The kind that saved settlers
from an early burial
beneath the sand of an unforgiving hour glass.

I could see it sitting on a porch rail
as the extended family piled into the old Hudson,
headed for Route 66 and heartache.

Or maybe it was lost, flung among the apples
on the day Floyd was gunned down,
the whole red orchard riddled
with hot, momentary life.