Summer

The grass wilts and yellows, turns to straw, but people go to the parks and lie under the sun anyway
Bare earth baked dry until it splinters
Above the tarmac the air shimmers like magic in the boiled afternoons
Windows are thrown open, curtains fluttering, and the streets echo with conversations and arguments and different kinds of music
The smell of next door’s dinner drifts into my bedroom, and my stomach rumbles