The summer sets in the neighborhood. As the pink and purples sour,

a ginger blows a birthday candle, alone. 

The people conglomerate in the fields. Marbled meat from 

the farmers’ market is burned into rocks. 

Cabbage heads are thrown, each catch peeling back a new layer. 

Evaporation at each touch until a heart is left and 

kicked by the children. 

Cat fur makes the adults sneeze into their 

beer cups. I’ve pulled these weeds up before, 

this summer, last summer, and the summer before. 

Nothing is as lonely as sitting in this square, the aroma of 

bugs and humidity hugging me, but I am sick of 

the grasshoppers’ songs. The notes stuck between their legs.  

On the way home, I count the pavement cracks, walking on my 

mother’s back, because the monotony makes the journey shorter. 

The summer sets for good. A button hole is left slivered in the sky, 

meant to hold something round. 

It is next time. I’m sitting, and it is just as lonely. 

Paper scraps surround my torso, until 

I wade waist-deep. I search for what made me warm, but it appears

I am stuck here.