When it rains
I can smell the grass
tall against the salt spray,
that clings loving to the logs,
tossed on the beach
by the southeaster tide
flecked white and brown with foam
beneath the leaden sky.
The desert is an endless beige
drifting like a madwoman between the palms
and the dunes that yesterday were valleys,
a grit that starts between your toes
and nestles in your inner ear
to buzz like the black flies
lingering in the air like a taupe mantle
beneath a cloudless sky.
The summer city, toxic like some concoction
distilled in a lab far beneath the subway
where rats and discarded pet alligators fight
for crumbs of offal flung before the flush,
wafting up to mingle with the melting asphalt
and human patience waiting for a bus
driven slowly with indifference to time
or the best before date of humanity.
My city is a desert of privilege
disguised behind the politic speak
that permeates every corner of life,
in your pores and gritting your sight
until indifference and apathy
become a way of life, a raison d’etre,
or whatever the 50 cent buzzword
is this week or last year.
But when it rains
I can smell the grass
tall against the salt spray,
that clings loving to the logs,
tossed on the beach
by the southeaster tide
flecked white and brown with foam
beneath the leaden sky.
ml’25