Approaching noon is yellow like of Wordsworth’s daffodils.
The dogs of the neighborhood looking for shelter
Coming in terms with the cats living in shady corners.
The sky is burnt in the coal mud-oven of the teashop.
Weather officials has declared of an showery evening;
Their prediction pricks the ears as heated roof on barefoot.
The fliers thus blow in the wind; laugh on our lips sound–
Last breathes of a dying man old beyond livin’.
The signals drowsily changing colors over the street–
Once bustling now exhausted Gold Rush city-street.
The room we sleep is cold for air-conditioning making me feel–
Unrecognised carcass lying in the drawer.
I closed my eyes; only sleep can make a survivor out of me.
Summer is cruel but never been so cruel like in twenty two.