The streets swell in summer—
filled with sweat and dirt and
stained yellow of spilt garbage.
You can’t hear the children playing
for the droning traffic
and the frequent rumble of passenger jets
that drown out their voices.
You know what its like
to be swallowed.
The heat reminds you of many
terrible memories, but we won’t
speak about those today.
in the thick hot breeze
when the earth gasps for breath.
It’s no wonder
the desert floors are barren
and all the rocks are painted red.
Someone’s got a greasy black gun
and they’ve tucked it in their
I don’t have to tell you how the story ends,
only that the streets will look a lot like desert rocks
when it’s all over.
In the summertime its hard to tell
the difference between sweat and