|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Summer city Every morning my drive to work is interrupted by the carcass of my muffler decaying on the side of the road And the closest I get to air conditioning is the cold breath of the refrigerator sighing across my thighs, smelling of week-old Chinese take-out taking over. And the heat is oppressive when you're driving a tin can in traffic plagued by the thought of your road-kill muffler, feverish with rust, burning in the sun, hotter than it ever got on those drives to Ashtabula The bills won't allow the resurrection of my exhausted pipe, and I tell myself that it gives my Honda a throaty sound. But myself knows it's closer to rheumatic My apartment is more silent since the Korean family next door was deported in a flurry of footfalls and a serenade of language more alien to me than calculus I miss the smell of those Korean dinners, and girls that would come to me in the hall and tease me to respond the way Pavlov would have liked |
||