suburbs, dusk, the creature waits for something

by Ben Adams

he sits in sweat-damp
clothing, types
words to himself

the heat crawls on
like some ancient, mechanized
insect

he thinks of doing the washing
of blackening his hands under the bonnet
of the rusting ford out front

the 4 cylinder '79 motor
kicking over
once more

he thinks of starting things
he thinks of tumblers filled with ice
and bourbon

and there is the brown grass backyard

and on the clothesline
a single
grubby tea
towel, hanging stiff
and dry
from weeks
in the sun.