May to October blends together in these parts What the sun doesn’t blister the humidity wilts Sparrows whistle in dawn and the cicadas deafen dusk with plaintive rings Between the start and end of day, the noise of a busy planet whirs down the asphalt tacky from the heat, rutted from the weight of progress or regress depending upon your outlook Oppression is not always a social condition, sometimes it sits in the air like a stinkbomb, fused by a hundred days of sameness but always waiting Until the gentle cleanse of an afternoon rain wipes the chalklines from sheets, and cakes the rust on cherry pickers lining the pummeled streets Until tar soaked caliche crumbles beneath shoeless feet, and air is lifted for a moment in defiance of tradition
