**
Hot on the pavement,
hot on the grass.
Greenhouse car windows,
sweat on your ass.
The sun in the oven left in way too long.
The skin on your thighs asking where things went wrong.
The river a bathtub,
downtown a ghost.
The hills dry and dusty,
dangerous toast.
Why is it worse around five than at two?
What does a morning do when there’s no dew?
The sky, then, gets purple and people start trickling
and walking and drinking while string lights go flickering
and soon the crepuscular habits will stop.
But not for tomorrow. Again, from the top.
**
