Chores

 

 

There is a dust that coats my tongue
And weights the air I breathe with
Vortices of Winston smoke exhaled against
Cicadas buzzing in the mesquite's shade
So mercilessly far away
From where I stand

The heat presses me into the dirt
In fine attention to each little ant
Each little gnat gasping hack of my hoe
Before I give up and decide that the house
With its checkered oil-cloth iced tea
Blast of cold will check my momentary cowardice