Nothing moves at noon,
the sun’s so high
the heat is audible:
like a 3 a.m. television
hissing on an empty channel.
The tabby cat
sprawls in the shade
under the Toyota
in the driveway, yawning,
waiting for dusk to fall
to mask his stripes,
his hunt for midnight mice.
The toads who sang all night
are silent in their damp holes,
patient, biding the hours until the
after-sunset-warty-orgy resumes
and fills the semi-toxic ponds
with clouds of eggs and sperm.
The neighbors, who laughed
in their garage til after two last night,
full of beer and barbecued chicken,
finally put the five-year olds to bed.
Deflated the jumpy house this morning,
bagged the cans and bottles strewn
across the patchy lawn.
Half a torn tortilla feeds
a crew of ants.
The red-eyed men aren't saying much,
and the women haven't been outside
the apartment yet. The kids are watching TV
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