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the hispanic neighbors
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little bird the hispanic neighbors
are already on the porch
they are harvesting the breeze
i am upstairs writing poems
prisoner of the heat
ironically waiting for evening
and my friends to return and
to go to a mexican restaurant
there is the clutter of refinement
up here that i respect
my back, after the nap
seems to be better
it didn’t seem this hot
even in your arms
in buffalo
even in the heat
of desire
i am here in the town
where once i was
the well known poet
thumping out lines
between the hours at
an over-paid retail job
dreaming of the wilderness and
a woman who would love me
regardless of my station in life
a simple and worthy dream
if ever there was one
