Name’s Lotfi, forty-eight marriage behind me, kids in my rear-view mirror. I settle where the dunes smooth out our boot prints and the ocean sneaks in to rinse the dust off our plans. My office these days is a UN compound: alarm clocks beat the roosters, paperwork keeps the moon company.
Give me something broken and I’ll miss dinner to coax it back to life—rickety chair, busted transistor, a morning that started on the wrong foot. My code is old cassette-tape style: a promise is a contract, you offer your hand before you open the door, and coffee poured at the right minute says more than a speech ever could.
These knuckles usually wear motor oil or sawdust like evening cologne, but they still remember how to cup a stunned sparrow. I speak little, laugh sudden, and hoard folded scraps of midnight scribble.
I don’t need spotlights,just a corner where I’m handy, steady around Whatever’s missing, the desert breeze can drop it on my step tomorrow for all I know.
