I was transported to a city surrounded by sandy sagebrush hills.
A bronze sun showed in a pale yellow sky, dull through the gray smog.
In a cheerless, landscaped professional city, I lived in a trailer.
And here, my friend Andrew was shot.
I don't know how it happened, he just turned up at my door like that.
He seemed shrunk, still tall and yet smaller, prominent cheekbones               gone higher.
The comb marks in his sandy hair had gone frizzled and sweaty,
his smile limply wilted, clarinet missing,
a hole in his shirt staining it rusty. Sappily,
I put my arms around him -- I didn't think he'd be so bony --
and led him to the car, intending to take him to the hospital.
I stretched him out on the back seat.

But I didn't get in myself.
Instead, I paced, and became frantic because the rest of the family                 was so slow about coming with.
My clarinetist friend was oozing out, and all they could do was primp              and get ready.