DANS LES REINS

i saw roses die on their bush,
baked in the late summer sun.

angry, 4 o’clock summer sun,
dog shit fried on the black top beside it.

i did not expect to meet you like this,
sweat rolls down my neck.

i have no room for you—
my bags are full of groceries—
yet i turn down my red face
and wilt.

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