at home in the heat

At home in the heat

that buckles my memories

and drives a rusted pick up

truck 10,000 miles past

its last recommended

tune up

she talks to the grass

a stick becomes a

toothless comb

or a wand

which she sweeps

over uniform green blades

forcing them to bend, swoon, or

learn calisthenics

(and right 2 - 3

and left 2 - 3)

She is sitting beneath

mossy limbs

that are bowed from

the sky's unnerving parental caress

her pigtails

hang as twisted

and torn

as her doll's clothes

they are rags

(both the pigtails and the clothes)

the kind you

would be unsurprised to find

hanging out of

an el camino’s

gas cap

maybe she isn't talking

maybe she's singing

or dancing in between both