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.
I wrote this while at a friend's house during a sleepover - minus the sleep for me. I crept into the butterfly chair in the corner of her room and looked out the window, hearing the sound of rushing water and a frog below, a strange juxtaposition of sound with the sleepy summer night.