this may look like a drought in any other place, here it’s simply July in the desert the lengthy landscape of frog choirs along the creek are gone, some crowded into the drainage swill at the walk bridge many are buried in the mud now encrusted and safe in a mucous bubble as the stream bed has long died from thirst I wonder how they decide who stays up and who goes under who continues to splash and sing and who postpones those pleasures you know, I wouldn’t mind hiber

words ripped from darkness by sharpened teeth and spit like hailstones in red rain there are many victims, including the dead and wounded moments of peace even the sun will peek out from behind a cloud, deciding whether to shine on that a vampire may cage himself on a full moon night but this beast curls up in an unlocked closet, always kicked awake, red-eyed and unstoppable

until you reach it, you’ll only dream of retired life, especially after seventy I’m sure most imagine it as easy, but it has its own crosses to bear like you’ve been on the phone for hours with someone from Pakistan trying to change a password there’s a charge on your credit card that isn’t yours, but then it is, and you don’t remember what one restaurant stopped serving a dish you love and you arrived 5 minutes late and missed the ea