bruised hip hue

Ours was the summer of cicadas. That season we were kicking kings. Those hot days of unemployment The sick sense had not yet set in. Insect shells collected on the sides of roads We wrote bad checks and made collect calls. We heard each other then. Even in traffic, drives away were hopeful And the radio loud. Air-conditioning goose pimpled our bodies When we were so lucky. I don't recall when we acclimated to this city, The heat. The storms. The rituals. The wildlife. The wild life.