The sky is dip-dyed in gray
Worn at the edges by pulling little hands
Opaque; no light shines through
No pinpricks of the crossweaves of this satin
Only the shadows of stars seen by darting eyes

Below,
A contained rainforest nestled in a suburb
heard but not seen,
separate sounds aligning.

This mingles with the clink of car tools and occasional laughter
soft, a murmur, like rain in the dark
not meant to be witness, only listened
a moment of peace,
undisturbed,
alone but not lonely.

Assuming a Corona
resting on the still-warm curb,
dripping a cold summer sweat.
Assuming a pickup
A red Ford? Too cliche.
Hood open, leaned over or slid under
Grease stains and a wifebeater

Everything is swelled and lazy and happy
like sun-grown watermelons
everything falls away to this sweltering peace
narrated by AC and bicycle chains.