Drunk off the coolness of night
the sweat staggers down my forehead
and into the corner of my baby green mirrors.
I try to see past the haze
razing or slow pillaging or shimmering
or evaporating off the asphalt.
I stare at it posturing. Pretending
I know how to read tea leaves or tarot or any situation really.
i’m trying to find reason. No. I’m not trying to find anything.
Today. Even the shade under the trees
in Gratz Park are mirages of a better time.
Making me remember back when.
When we had seasons here.
A memory. One that stings
like a bee. Or embarrasment. Or like sweat
when it finds its way into a fresh cut on your knuckle
or into your eyes.
When all you trying to do is see.