by Didi C.

Seismically similar to
the torporous snoring
of a colony of bats,
the air conditioner
hums and heaves,
Baba in her babushka
hefts groceries
up the final steps,
ice cream drips down
the chins of children,
dogs blabber behind
metal fences,
the sidewalk sighs away
the day’s heat, and
the sultry scent of
fried chicken and
exhaust saturates
curtains, which breeze
through open windows,
as you lie on a sofa
that’s encased in plastic,
just breathing.

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