Hot On Capital Hill

A curlicued woman, of fumbling feet, I am

hopscotching my way round Capital Hill,
to watch the nighttime activities of punk boys in masks of animals.

Feel the ghost-hands of Hendrix, observed the girls and their
pixilation in selfies, eye shadow that’s glowing in the dark, the
neon hum, t-shirts hung from apartment windows like gonfalons,

dreadlocks clinging to the hidden stars. I say
satyrs walk here, with hooves five inches tall, and the street
clogs like a sink, watery dreams catching on one another. Alone,

I make my way, by an overabundance of light;
things overflow here, as hearts squeeze their every juice out.

In the late hour, I need to find 3rd and Pike. I tell myself,
“It’s always downhill from here.” My boots click in rhythm.

I think I know why the ancients worshipped heathen gods.
I throw my hands up to the smog. I suck in the taste
of dirty ambitions and summer heat.

The city, like a bit of pepper, gets stuck in my teeth.

We’re all hot, wanting to get cool.

That’s the story of the times.