The summer breeze gives me a gentle pat on the back

while Tori Amos sings into my ear about her scream getting ‘lost in a paper cup,’
and my heart sinks because I tell her that 25 bucks isn’t enough
to get us anywhere
to keep us here
to feed us more than a meal
I clap my hands and wipe damp, black soil from my hands
My garden has never looked
so clean
so bare
so anticipatory

That’s the funny thing about the brink of summer

It keeps you                                waiting
anticipating.     your.       next.              move.
Unmuting the silence—  she whispers— has been “all these years”

I ask her to keep her orange clouds from raining on my head

or anywhere,

really.