The assignment was predicated on positivity. Trying to match my poetry to more of a good news attitude these days - don't know how well that's working.
Molting
The sun sets green as piss in Baltimore,
its residents imbued with neon tone.
Cicadas flit and click a motored drone
and leave their well-veined wings beside our doors.
In doggy days like these, we follow suit:
we buzz along an even, timeworn route.
Beneath your crunching footsteps, summer speeds.
I watch you gather wings in jelly jars
from my stoop step. I sit and pick the scars
of sweaty summers past until they bleed.
As skins and wings collage the stoop and street,
the blistered world revolves about our feet.
In Baltimore, we only hear this hum
and feel the heat. We’ll crunch and bleed and sweat
until the piss-green August sun has set.
The wings will crumble, then the leaves will come
again. In far-off years, the bugs will buzz
and molt, but nothing will be as it was.
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