Lost in summer’s wasteland.
On your front steps,
watching Ra dance high above,
“puffing away in green lizard silence.”
Occasionally disturbed by an
envious watcher or a nosy neighbor.
Inhaling the intoxicating
fumes from the air
and the cigarettes we
stole earlier in our boredom.
Attempting to melt away
in an afternoon’s hellfire,
leaving us a deep pang of
voodoo on the brain,
the day dropping
its massive weight on our heads.
Waiting for when vampires come out to feed.
“Where is Neil to tell us a story?
One about a dead king and a puppet
that kills his wife and death himself.”
Lost in summer’s wasteland,
we sat on steps made of stone,
watching the moon and her new pair of shoes,
to a cricket’s orchestra.