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,
sitting,
listening
to
a cricket’s orchestra.
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