Tucumcari on a cold clear day is beautiful,

The strip-road between I-40 and downtown

A gallery of unfiltered hues, prismatic bits.

White painted cinder blocks of the S n-Air Apts,

Glinting broken beer bottles strewing the lot 

Across from the Allsup’s, vistas caught between 

Tumble-down houses, the houses themselves—

Together a sterile, gentle, blue-sky collage, 

A determined effort, remembrances of want or need,

No regret, no attempt to conceal false starts.

Travelers on their way east or west, anywhere

But here, exit the highway, use local services,

Spend a few minutes, a few dollars, nothing more,

Add flash and chrome, movement, to the scene,

Stubby roadside pinion pines and buff grass

Offering no evidence of anything but still life.

Each barren yard, each fast-food joint, each tossed

Wrapper, each element a plane of color,

Free of corrosives, iconic, to remain as it is, 

Preserved by this arid, New Mexican, winter air.