So bright now
on this shadeless
cul-de-sac
of time,
my near-bald neighbor
at his mailbox
wipes his brow
and sighs
as light’s unveiled
vendetta
scalds our ill-used
fescue black.
There’s not
one clement letter
in these stacks
of bills and ads
for short-term,
red-hot sales,
and not a wisp
of rescue
through the stale
white sky
which only retails
sweat and lack.
A breath ago
the whole hale street
was greened
from curb
to bungalow,
a glazy-sheened
Arcadia,
a burb
where even cynics
beamed
and elsewhere’s highs
were quarantined
in haze . . .
Now rarely seems
so hot a minute,
though we’re caught
to braise
forever in it.