Brown dead grass,
Like the nasty weeds in our front yard
that sprout up and die
under the hot sun.
Piles of dry powdery dirt
cracked
by a shriveled tree
with gray leaves.
Creepy crawly spider,
it skitters up my leg—
a little spindle demon.
Wiggly rubbery dog
flopped over
panting
on burning concrete.
A stray balloon,
fleeing the sticky hands of a child
into the cloudless sky.
I laze on a splintering wood bench,
crunching on hot greasy popcorn
thinking about sweet cold rain
that is nowhere to be found.
Art by Chloe Shaw