Switchbacks of a Cul-de-Sac
Let the rain tickle the frame As it goes down the drain. Should not have refrained. Sitting in a playground, fur coat, licking a sticky nape. It is always almost too hot, too crowded, too hard. What more “too’s” are there, nevertheless? Sitting in a playground, doves nipping on fresh buds of dandelions. A group of adolescent boys destroy our peace; I am one with the ambits. It is always too hot, too crowded, too hard. Magpies of white belly stand before my bench. He knows he is Apollonian in the echoes of guttural doves. The sun goes unseen behind the fulgent mosque; pink-tiled sills feel amiss. It is almost too hot, too crowded, too hard. I am on the crescent, I am on the birch, I am on the cobblestone; I am with the birds. Bees inside my ears sizzle bestial amendments, whispering I am also with the gods. Walking forward, waltzing back. A waving kid with a waging gift, a warming hug after a warning bug. It is too hot, too crowded, and too hard.
