My favorite time in summer
is right before a storm
when the air has taken
a deep breath, held
it
clouds
race
each
other,
see who is first to dump
that first
heavy
drop
on fulano’s forehead.
The air bum rushes trees,
bare feet sticky
with tar and chubbie’s cheeks
run inside.
The light dims sepia,
a photograph held up,
as the rain spitballs
a game of hopscotch.
The wreckless adorn themselves,
carajitos loosen their grip
grin with terror at a maternal sight
bigger than the hood.
The rain washes onto platforms,
the gum spotted sort,
feed the sewer where the undead lie,
celebrate the pits of petaling mullock
and scraps of pockets
drowns the drifting tunes
and takes the rats for a ride.

**

Quick dusk brings sun,
a second day
with the same sweaty cheeks of summer,
chafes its way into buildings,
perfumes the hallways,
a city’s signature indoor scent.