Beechwood Avenue, August 20

the bed of memory remains unmade,
the sheets are stained
and reek of sweat

It's Tuesday on Beechwood Avenue.
It's August 20th. It's hot. The neighbor waters his brown grass by hand with a hose in true Italian fashion. Across the street, the mother is out, the father and his buddy watch the kids with growls and yells. The smallest catches a finger in the van door and catches hell from the father and gets an ice pack, eventually, once the sobbing subsides. Next door to them, a young single mother calls for one of her cats, coaxing it home by rattling a tin of cat treats. I sit on the front porch, smoking, looking at her large, firm breasts, which remind me of Jenifer's, love number four or five.