by Salvatore Difalco
Sunflowers swooning
in fading light.
My eyes are ruined
from pollen gusts.
Thick hot soup
of summer evening,
a thunderclap follows
a sizzle in the east.
The sun dips off
as raindrops tink
the thin tin roof–
I slap out mosquitoes.
Ice cubes rattle a glass,
whisky poured over
slowly so it chills
before the first sip.
Tip my Stetson
to the hombre
on the moon
and his sombrero.
Tip my Stetson
to the sagging
sunflower army,
defeated and sombre.
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