It’s hot
the breeze just lifts and settles.
A man sways to dangerous angles.
The kids look quick but play anyway.
A possum half crushed is
half alive so the guy gets a crowbar.
He walks stiff hoping he will just die
without intervention.
This is what I mean exactly.
Wind shifts scent like piss
like weed, perfume, exhaust
all through here.
The KFC fan blows across the park
so who knows how the flowers smell?
Like greasy chicken and cigarette butts?
Like dirty diapers and beer cans?
I’ve waited centuries now.
I signed 679 petitions last week.
Sitting and clicking and clicking then
yesterday I found a stone so smooth
I cried and cried.
It touched dry in my pocket
pulling me down with the weight
of my skin absorbing
more light than ever now.
I touched hot lying on blacktop
oiled up to bake darker and darker still
but living whole, not tragically outlined
post impact, post crowbar, bullet
or psychic noose pulled tighter over time.
This is history.
Even the green grass holds
broken glass in light in dew
I glimpse the future shimmering.
