Burning Up
BURNING UP
It’s burning up. Tar
melts off streets and sticks
to bare feet. The crazy
woman walking. Tongues flap
burning black rubber. Slap
words like knives. Filet
of heart. Throw it
on the grill. BBQ time. Tempers
flare and drivers swerve. Sirens
buzz like hornets. Can’t keep up
with car crashes. Head-on
collisions. The crazy woman
drags her pink
suitcase across an empty
parking lot. Douses it
with lighter fluid and torches the bag
in 115 degree heat. She strikes
match after match. Shoots kerosene
like toxic piss. The suitcase
gapes open. Vomits flames and whole
notebooks filled with citations. Criminal
Code for “You are so fucked up”
or maybe it’s just the weather. The heat
is killing us. Or maybe it’s Father’s
Day and another impossibly
impossible day. Maybe it’s the dregs
of the weekend closing. Nights
of insomnia grating. Down the street steel
crunches and the power
grid goes out. No more traffic
lights. No more
TV. No more
telephone. Everything
loses control. Everything is
burning up. The woman
wipes her brow and spits
into the fire. It crackles and burns
her face to crisp bacon. She licks
her lips. Beats
her arms. Stares
into the red ball
of the sun and flies
straight into it.