July is made of misty morning conquered by heart
Standing placidly in boring wait
Cigarettes clamped between fingers, fogged vision by smoke exhalation
Your trepidations blown out, blown along.
July is of musky, sweaty afternoons
Restless and keen to leave the tedious work in howling
Mad dungeon yearning for bed as somnolence creeps
Like a bug and bites spreading vast slumber virus.
July is of long evening trips back home, trudging along
Lengthy buses in stiff traffic jams
Coming home beaten like a barroom thug, collapsing, the world ceasing to turn.
Resting and dying lines are blurred