There are thick, black outlines all around
The things I know, like Rouault paintings,
Stained glass windows, here, beneath the
Deadly, searing desert sun. I don't know
What this town is named. It's two blocks
Wide, astride the highway, dessicated, nearly
Dead, (9/3) a playground for electric pylons,
Marching off, like aliens, toward the hills
Beyond this valley. I am seated in the
Bar of some pathetic, prefab imitation
Of the Strip hotels (themselves, of course, but
Imitations; nothing in America is ever
What it claims to be) , a decent gin and
Tonic doing what it can to sink the heat
And salve the heart which draws those
Outlines. Our car's being worked on
Here. The wife and kids are upstairs
Watching Disney's racist propaganda.
I have gripped this stool sternly, almost
Certain I should walk outside and simply
Slide away. I don't feel, inside the
Lines, the sentiments to keep me here.
I don't know how I've made it this far.
I suppose I have because there's
Nowhere else to go.

Lawrence Beck

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/breakdown-in-nevada/