By Eleanor Keith

 

Brown dead grass,

Like the nasty weeds in our front yard

that sprout up and die

under the hot sun.

Piles of dry powdery dirt

cracked

by a shriveled tree

with gray leaves.

Creepy crawly spider,

it skitters up my leg—

a little spindle demon.

Wiggly rubbery dog

flopped over

panting

on burning concrete.

A stray balloon,

fleeing the sticky hands of a child

into the cloudless sky.

I laze on a splintering wood bench,

crunching on hot greasy popcorn

thinking about sweet cold rain

that is nowhere to be found.

 

Art by Chloe Shaw