As the mad sun makes blood boil into a stir,
Impatience becomes the glue
Sticking the stuck air.
Rain dreading souls long for moist,
Their change of tune
Cool haze the cooling of choice.
The chain gang ties shuffle in their droves,
In baking clothes.
Workers in hole of tarmac bleak,
Stirring in dust
Of cauldrons deep.
Town birds pick at discarded breads,
Blinded by glistening
Sweat lined heads.
Take me home
Back to the green
Away from this hellish, hell like scene.
Copyright © 2017 Charlie Hasler.