Now in the Summer, Here in the Desert,

some kids reach their hands 

deep into the gaps between 

minivan seats, feeling for 

one more nickel, enough 

to go down to the gas station 

and get a blue and cold slushie

and the pigs plop down 

into the mud and slowly roll,

trying to bury themselves 

in that thick brown slime

and an old chained-up dog 

tries to sleep in the shade

of the wooden steps that lead 

to the door of the mobile home.

A few flies descend on 

the dog’s moist nose,

and commence their fly dance,

complete with wing flutters

and rapid limb-rubs, right there 

on the peach-colored nose

of the grandfather hound, who watches

the flies with half-interested eyes,

not bothering to shake his jaw,

or to lift a heavy, hot, and tired paw. 

And upon these kids 

and upon these pigs

and upon this dog 

and even upon these flies

are bestowed a knowledge unknown

to those who live beneath cooler skies:

a knowledge of the summer,

a knowledge of the desert.