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a poem by T. A. Cullen

Random Heat Wave

Shouting, screaming curses
cut through the air like a bullet --
a drive-by in reverse
hitting everyone who passes
beneath the bellowing windows
of a hot apartment house
on a screeching hot summer day.

Then night falls,
flies buzz about the bedroom
still air interrupted by a revolving fan
for only a moment
now and then
having parked their bodies
in opposing corners
reach across desolate sheets
sweat mingles with dust mites and DNA
and their fingers intertwine like old roots.

© by T. A. Cullen
Gutter Eloquence Magazine ~ Issue #22 ~ July 2012