Desert Reminder
By Heather HubbleMacon, GA
5:27
The orange sun shines angrily
into my eyes,
cursing me for remaining
yet in bed.
In front of my building
(202 A)
green prickly weeds
poke through the sand,
which thirstily consumes the water
from the sprinklers
dispensed at the pain of those
banished to the drought
of the lowlands.
The landlady turns them on
every morning at 4,
fiercely pretending
she? watering a lawn.
By 7:30, it's 80 degrees.
By lunchtime, 110.
Hot air bakes, dries
the back of my throat.
As I fight my way up a hill,
asphalt dances before my eyes
with rising air
complaining of the heat.
Almost there.
My old but faithful bike,
left three gears too high
on purpose,
the battle ground of gravity
and muscle,
reminds me in its squeaking voice
that chains and sprockets only take so much
before they break
like all of us
and everything
