Heat Wave
by Margo Davis

Beads cling
then slip from my lip like drops

on the rim of the inert hose
as firemen brace for

the mule-kick that never comes.
Comical if my house weren’t

just beyond reach. I scraped hard for
planed boards, fresh paint,

solid roof. Yet chance chased gasoline
with a cartwheeling match.

Illya's Honey Literary Journal

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