The heat drags its knuckles

over blacktop, brick, arms, faces,

jack-boots the street as humid mist

drifts from the heart of our bricked square

out to the curb where coffee shop workers

are delivering ice waters to the street urchins.

Scooping a cube onto her neck, she’s trying

to triage her malaise with iced coffee,

relief dissolving her street mask for a moment.

Summer night draping damp linens

over city intaglio, blue glyphs of exhaust

above intersections, verve and pocked nerve

hinged on the dark geometries of power lines.

No seats inside, she fingers another cube

up an arm, beveling the edge honed all day

at work, unloading boxcars to load trucks.

Square denizens promenade and sweat,

cop on horseback beside a sidewalk tree

regulating the pulse as a corner sax player

lets a fly with a freighted wail, notes

like orchids spun down canyons,

drawing stragglers to our shared swelter.