Dawningsburgh

A lean wind wails through the age-old
avenues of Dawningsburgh.

Mornings, it brings sand from surrounding hills and scrubs
at fresh paint, neon signs endlessly
proclaiming the city’s synthetic name and street markers
in seven languages.

At sunrise it prepares the dunes for footprints of
scurrying guided tourists.

When icy night clamps down and the intruders
scamper to their hotels,
the wind howls as it flings after them a day’s collection
of paper cups,
bottle caps and other picnic offal.