Back On Deep

Back on my block. Framed by the concrete corner lot with the occasional eighteen wheeler and the two story house with black moldiness thriving on their porch's brick steps. Styrofoam to go box torn and ragged by the fence. Chard drowning. Kale demolished. Seven inches of rain in a few hours. The sun arrives again, humidifies the already wet wind, burns through clouds and leaves the body empapado. Ensweated gross and realing. Lips chapped in the city of Lewis and Clark instantly recover in the sopping damp. No more cracking scaling or fissured pain, just new wetness. Heat to airconditioning in a few hours. Two women, a mother and a daughter, dying down the street from the house at the Gulf Freeway and Tellepsen. Saw it at the taqueria on Canal 45. Drove down into the water, never to come up. To tell their story. Now when passing under the overpass, thoughts about. To mourn after the sun comes out, mourn while gathering the trash from the fenceposts. Is hardest. Fashioning time.

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