Ado

Mid-afternoon draught and din
of salt roads on a railway express,
winds. Ah, the dread drear of hot
summer days—and naught. Dim figures, scant afternoon,
they waver. Glib mirages donned by
morning, masks, that query which
way is left, which way

is left—to go. With shopping
carts that sing, the gay ditty of power
lines, they hum, like mosquitoes.
Oh, the mad gales of

temperament, rising. The
overture of parking lots, where life
goes and comes by day and is
by night, fluttering

of wings and naught. Then, she waits,
to falsity she prays, where on her
bench distress abates to calm.
She thinks to seeming

surety that her eight-fold
a fifty bill assures future drink.
And food, to wash away the
dread. Dread drear of hot

summer days and naught. They pass,
wisps of space and time, who stop. Suspend
in fluid then in shock of
stone are blind. And she,

in no other certain whim,
abates to calm. Here, amidst distress
she quaffs the monetary
loss, her life, daughter

and herself. Distress! dread drear
of hot summer days and naught.