An arid lantern exhales abrasive hums
It rests in the smothering cloak of humid anticipation
Names of children are scrawled on the nicotene crickets’ lattice backs
The crickets bumble in drunken waltz along the ground
They cannot fly through clouds gasping on the chains of Cerberus’ collar
The sticky smog and shadows scuttle through the low-hanging, lifeless clouds
It’s innocent origins trickle from the hem of God’s garment
To the jaded, cracked doorframe to deliverence
This sympathetic shack of dim-witted yellows and hosiery pink
She lays porcelain petals on the descending steps into indigo overcast
Description of the bus stop in the morning
