Turning south off Northern onto Sixteenth

and glancing at the hills on the left,

every time, the man thought of

Matthew’s Mountain and the big, beautiful

house that was to be built there

after Matthew, the Handyman,

got his feet back on the ground and reestablished

in the construction business after

the recession receded. 

A rancher’s kid, Matthew rode bulls in the rodeo,

broke thirty some bones, reached for

the heroin and shook hands

with the devil who stayed on Matt’s back for years.

Finally sober with a heart for others

and their monkeys, Matthew

just couldn’t resist a ride on the wild side, so he

bought a bike and hung a left just

when the truck hung a right

right into the Electra  Glide in Blue. The mountain,

really just a big desert hill, still has the

Palo Verde and a few snakes on

top. Each time the man passes, he remembers

his English lit. professor saying,

“The best-laid schemes o’ mice an ‘men

Gang aft agley,

An’lea’e us nought but grief an’ pain,

For promis’d joy!”