Sweltering heat. nearly empty car. red laces on blue Nikes lean against a pole.
Sorry to mention the chorus of cicadas / and the constellations of fireflies
You shark-circle me, I know, But I am in my own ocean, Lying in hushed dark blue and looking up To the curve of the tail of my blue whale.
We consume what we must, to make it up. In this neighborhood, tact never stood a chance.
My father walks through the scrub, a shortcut, to get to Walmart where he meets up with his friends for coffee on Friday afternoons.