The heat wave breaks, not in a roll of thunder but in a dusting of droplets. They leave the canyon smelling of petrichor, of warm, humid, earth, of something else. It makes you think of longing, and chasms inside your chest, echoing voids of loneliness, wounds unhealed, just covered over, perpetual scaffolding.
The dog lies underneath the piano stool as you play. You want it to be a compliment but know she’s simply waiting for bedtime. You think you’d best not get a dog of your own just yet, your schedule would morph into a canine clock, your habits suddenly leashed. She barks at ghosts in the dark woods outside the window. You’ve resigned yourself to yours and wonder if you’d be better off barking.
There’s poetry in there somewhere still, in the dark woods, in the chasm. There’s poetry in the petrichor and you’ve stopped transcribing it, it litters the ditches like banned single use plastics.
Because what good is poetry without a voice?
It clutters the arteries,
strangles the lives below.
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