Norm Rourke Poems

It sits off the Ruidoso highway
that takes skiers and campers in season,
White washed adobe, red tile roof
and bell that tolls parishioners to prayer.
...

Sandy roads snaked through orange groves
before the highway took the land,
Small communities of pickers and workers
lived in cracker box houses with families.
...

It’s just a hamburger joint. Nothing special from the others: Onions mashed into meat patties. Cooking in their own grease. Fries on the side. A crowd of overalled workers. Laughing and talking and eating. The same crowd every day. Ketchup gushed onto fries. Large Cokes—not diet—washes down unchewed food.
...

A gentle breeze blows
To kiss the velvet petals
Of a newborn rose.
...