The howling of boozehounds
outside the bar across the street
blends with the ear-splitting yodel
of police cars and fire trucks speeding
to the latest Mission catastrophe.
I would close the windows,
but it’s hot in here. The air should be Republican,
it’s so oppressive. In the kitchen,
the fan squeaks near the ceiling, useless and
archaic as a butter churn, rotary phone, Victrola.
It’s so hot and only getting hotter.
By the time the mosquitoes arrive,
all whirring cellophane wings,
I’m just a pile of sounds beside you,
moans and purrs and cries wrapped in skin.
The night sighs as red digits switch places,
ushering in the morning’s music:
garbage trucks, the alarm’s faint bleating,
and, occasionally, the chirp of a lone bird.
