The rain has made the grass grow—
it overcrowds the footpaths and
hides little green toads
that swell and squawk into
darkness—
the heat stalks those who leave
the house, flies lodge in corners of
eyes—
boot soles squeak and soften like taffy
on the bitumen. “One rule—always put on
a shirt before you die, it keeps things in…
this heat—
turns men into water. His skin…”
Drawn by the lights, boys in masks
plot something then withdraw,
afraid of a certain trouble pervading
sundown—
the hot dusk.
“…delaminated.”
Thanks for checking out my poem.
Did I tell you I wrote a novel? You can also donate some of your hard-earned dollars down below—that’s money to me, for free!
—Gabriel Muoio
$1.00
