It's a fever-pitch
evening downtown
the heat still
radiates off of the walls and
asphalt,
hot
black and silver
daytime coming
from underneath,
so we're sweating
and it's
beer sweat, smelling
and thick, no breeze
in the alleyway
to cool our brows.
It's a low drone
buzzing to actual
conversation, meaning
it's
looks and gestures of heatstroke
until the beer
sweats out.
Those peers of the gingkos,
the streetlamps, shine
that orange sheen onto everything
and no one knows
what colors
the cars truly are.
Broken shafts
of light trickle down
to the sidewalk, where
a little
slick of vomit
reflects a green, then
yellow, then red
light.
No comments:
Post a Comment