Brick Road wanders through the desert.
The sun beats at him, but he doesn’t feel it.
Between the sky and the sand the air is an oven, but he doesn’t feel it.
Vultures circle around his head, but he doesn’t mind them.
They build nests on his shoulders and he doesn’t mind.
They are unlovely birds.

His stride is long and slow.
He rocks from side to side like a ship, a high-centered ship of pleasure.
The venue on his shoulders sleeps undisturbed while he strolls through the night.
He steps on the occasional cactus, and that bothers him.
He is not built for delicacy, but he picks his way as neatly as he can.

His tenderness has caused problems in the past.
It took the better part of a week to work his way free of the palm trees.
He’d wanted to see the pyramids again, but accidentally came out on the wrong side.
He doesn’t have the heart to push through the trees again.

Brick Road has a door in his ankle.
Right where the tendon would be.
A small sign is hung there, platinum with gold lettering:
It is easy to enter. –Brick Road.