Under houston summer heat, she wavered
like asphalt (as if she weren't there
at all); in ralston's parking lot, the smoked-down Newports
and malt liquor bottles were hers as we
scorched our feet jumping rope and
the girls sang "miss mary mack" til we
fell on our faces.
Next to the graffiti wall, she slid in
Her cart and her dead, empty face
took cover from the sun while we recklessly
burned through our childhoods.