Rebuilding The Carburetor

I visit my father in the desert,
the polar bears of cactus roar,

icebergs of sand surround his house,
grapevines grope Mexican girls,

and the sun sacrifices cold at dawn.
“ The desert is not for everybody,”

my father says, as he pulls the carburetor
from my 1970 Mustang,

“it scares some, and it makes others
fall in love.”

I am none of the above. Once,
while backpacking in the mountains above his house,

a mountain lion tracked me for three days.
“ One way or another

death is always after you.”
he says, while replacing the venturis.