Main St.
A passing siren
abbreviates panic,
removes me from thinking’s
constant throb. Yellowjackets
carve a circular blur
around a soda can
standing in
pissed-on woodchips.
Nostalgia wanes
when it’s this hot, when speech
contracts to half a breath
behind a word that won’t come.
So humid
even the concrete wilts.
Main St.