Waiting for the Storm

Drowning in throat coating dust
dragging deep dry breathes
thick through burning nose
down into dry lashed lungs
on arid August afternoons
with lawn long gone brown
the sandy soil scorched naked
wind whipping up small dust devils
plastering particles of sand
to sweat soak on skin exposed
to reddening low slung searing sun
and one can only sit stone still
waiting for the inevitable window
shaking thunder storm to clear
the air and the damned drought.

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