Kick

I’d complain it’s too hot

            But I know

you                  and you would tell me

that your skin was practically peeling off the

            bone

            yesterday.

And you wouldn’t remember the metal sign

with the dachshund cut out

                        in curly q’s

that marked the entrance to the hideout

where I am sweating into a trough now.

My skin flakes like bird feathers—

                        Down to the pebbles that support      

            my back about as well as that pillow top mattress

we got conned into buying last year—

you know,

            the one that already has an imprint of you

two feet deep and dry desert dust in its veins like us

like the foreigners that it holds each night as they wish they

were from                                here.

Like us, like us,

            Howling at silver plates and kicking over the bulbs of

the star on the mountain just to see them explode

glass firecrackers

                        in our faces.

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