in the distance, far off like a thought that doesn't
stick with you from one room to another, floating.
Same kind of yelp from stubbed toes and bloody
noses, paper cuts and bit tongues, dart.
Every neighborhood has a low sweet breeze,
rustling through the trees like stiff bridesmaids'
dresses and cards being shuffled, a sigh of relief
expelled with grace and the wave of an arm.
It tastes like molded leather you can't bear
to throw away, it's dank and earthy that way.
It's earthworm holes and dirty hose, drinking.
Quenched with rusty water that chills even
in bowed heat, this is a summer street.
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