Here’s one that is more than and different from just a story. It feels more like a semi-abstract painting: if made clear like a photograph, it would lose its raison d’être.
Cold reason is an arid field of dust.
You can plough it daily.
The Good Lord knows I do.
More tears don’t trouble desert dirt.
Thats why I plough out here.
I work so long I get bone tired,
get tired of seeing blood on dirty hands.
A blister’s blood dries fast in desert air,
rusts gold and restful when the sun goes down.

Yes, we can can.

In the delta, blues are froggy, soggy wet.
Stay away, Lord. Stay way, way away.
A feral boar hog wanders in regret.
Loose music gets the dire, dry people tight.
They sing a song of ploughing dusty rows
in the desert where mirage is all that grows.
I plough the swamp, let in the drying sun.
I pack a pistol and a combat knife.
I am scared of nothing but my mortal self.

Yes, we can can.