heat week

It's raining hot water and thundering car alarms.
The sidewalks stink of urine and old bandages.
There's no express train, no L train, no AC.
A Brooklyn bound fog approaches on the lower level.
We move in thick trickles, stolid and sweat-stained.
Nothing sells well except for umbrellas and fruit.
Heat swollen hands deep in heaps of cool cherries.
I bought a greet belt from a black man for three dollars.
He said, so slowly: Today didn’t turn out all bad.
. . . . .