#34: May 27, 2006

Not even June, and already the heat
oppresses movement, depresses desire
and ambition; we half-expect the street
to bubble, smoke, and explode into fire,
coating our lungs with tar; we'll sit indoors
with glasses full of ice against our cheeks,
sweating like we do; the drops will stain the floor
like tears shed in the face of coming weeks.

We'll keep watering our lawns until August,
then give up, sun-defeated once again,
watch grass wither to ash, soil bake to dust,
and all go brown and sere like the world's end.

We'll hide from dead earth and scorched air that kills,
in fear of death by fire, and water bills.