by David Chorlton
Today the inside knows what the outside’s like, cats asleep and windows closed with nobody walking on the street and birds in the yard waiting for a shadow to perch on. It’s a hundred- and-Hell degrees this afternoon, the devil’s breath for a breeze and climate change denial melts when the temperature dances on the asphalt in the road. The midnight low is too high for living outdoors. Another record falls. The homeless camp was swept away and a public nuisance turned into a death threat. A dove has made a dust bath in a bare patch on the lawn, a man with no address lies down with his belongings at a bus stop where there’s shade. A lizard on the back wall flashes his lightning scales as he climbs a few more degrees of dry heat and doesn’t stop until he’s safely reached the air conditioned sky.
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David Chorlton is a transplanted European, who has lived in Phoenix since 1978. His poems often reflect his affection for the natural world, as well as occasional bewilderment at aspects of human behavior. He still produces occasional watercolors and is attentive to the local wildlife.
Excellent!