in a dead town a blonde
pasted over plastic salad

we don’t want
to admit
we’ don’t want
here and now

bleached by long days
the feel of a dirt road

the broken fence
the yellow teeth of the locust

on the lawn
rusting

a cracked mountain
sinking

those little hopes for the
weekend with green softness
over the lawn insects

float or dart the breeze
was so important that

it might keep me up tonight
I know it’s not your problem

the pickles came out so well

you know the darkness
catches up before
summer really gets
going I should stop
saying you know you
know anywhoo the

last time we spoke
you were spitting
in the eye of
a hurricane

it’s always the way when the days get less
generous with their light and walking the
dog you see furry legs in the trees and
a noise near or far you choose to ignore