The heatwave stretches, stopping only in the silent noons
Rolling blackouts litter the city like swaths of ash
I slip out onto the sidewalk, invisible without the streetlights
Baited and untraceable, I steal figs from the neighbor’s tree

I don’t buy groceries these days
Instead I eat the figs on my way home
not bothering to wash them
We’ll return to the dirt anyway,
We’re no different from the earth, its fruits, and its flowers  

I like to think of them as the forbidden fruit
Condemning me in the lifetime and the next
My kitchen is full,
overflowing with them
More ripening in paper bags by the window

I’ve spent the summer reading
Cannery Row, a Coney Island of the Mind,
I pass the time waiting for my chestnut crown come Autumn
But here in California the leaves never wilt, and the shadows never get taller

The neon sign above my building burns into the scorching night
I clamber upon the fire escape hoping for a breeze to drift down from the rising hills
My placards of paradise fading on the wrought iron
But still I soldier on, guileless against the beating sun