28 Aug 2016

The Day

It won't be the hottest day of the year
and I can stand humidity, the choking,
the cloying—that's not it. There's something else
that I can't put a finger on. It's not just me, either—you
can hear this tension in the voices outside
under the mad sun that makes dogs
skulk between islands of shade.
This is what precedes
apocalypse, surely.

Car horns argue in between near misses
up to traffic lights given white-hot pupils by
glints of fierce light. Set after set of lidless eyes look on
to dare, to mock
beneath the heaviness beating down,
making slaves of us all.

I made a comment about the air
pressure, something about a storm front,
treading the water of a shared fever dream
back to high-school geography. Rain falls unseen,
restless wind stirs furtive trees, and
that bastard sun breaks through the sea of clouds,
breaks through and hides away again in glaring feints.

Heat makes people act strangely, she goes, remembering
home—brings out the anger. I know it too well,
            burning with some insatiable passion.
I could take a life just as well as I could make one.
I'll hold out to see what night brings,
and if the world does end,
there couldn't be better day for it.


When night falls, we emerge
drifting, part of the cloud
of only seemingly lost souls.
        Weave around
    one                another,
    stumbling, laughing,
        find your place;
                        just as well,
                        it finds you.

He comes from the east—no,
is it east where he's heading?
I look at him:
Who are you?
He only smiles.

I mean, he looks familiar, has one of those
faces—you know the kind—a man of the world,
man who says little of what he's seen.
Through that keyhole is a vivid room.
Locks tend to leave us wondering.

I say how it's funny, that
some strangers we've already met.

No, but he calls it chance.
Some folk call it fate;
, he goes, hand curled
towards his heart, me,
I call it chance. You, me,
all of us here
—his hands widen,
shaping a sphere—all chance.