An Uncool Poem about Melting Beers

Red cones on the blacktop August is a burning blanket. Dusty crows perch on long dead armadillos. The Chevys' air-con chokes up a warm blow. A Navaho in Ohio has phoned. he needs to talk about his dead wife. He will have cold beers. I have my own beers but go anyway. The evening is electric and neon, city roads growl like wounded samurai. If I were a hermit crab I would shuck this scorched world off my sweating back. All I really want right now is to sleep naked on a mortuary slab as cold Atlantic waves undress my skin and bones. Not dead – just revived enough to be a friend of a friend to the newly departed and still cooling.