bruised hip hue

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