Summer Rains

Under this bulging sky,

full of summer life,

a broken-bodied man

clasping a shakey trundler,

frowns through one last summer.

Children, baked brown

as the gasping earth,

cool off with sodas,

and toss used-up cans

at the crackling pavement.

Sand, grit, human hair,

the dust and ash of some

dead Indian Yogi,

a bird carcass

with a plastic ring

round its neck,

all piled

one on the other

in this baking parking lot:

accumulated tragedies.

And the kids,  

with stubbed toes,

lark over all this wreckage.

Even the summer rains

can’t cleanse the

stench and decay

of budding life.

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