Around
every three minutes a car will drive by, exciting the dust into clouds that
settle like a film onto the dump trucks and safety cones.
The
inordinate amount of neon orange says there’s a war on Haverford. Apparently,
the city of Indianapolis couldn’t go on ignoring the autonomy of the sidewalks.
And now, the six o’clock reality depicts the aftermath of the battles between
concrete and men at work with deep holes and orange lattice.
I
feel like clay baking in this heat, but it’s a sweet heat. Overhead, the leaves
of the trees softening its brutality and shading thoughts still ringing with
the echoes of a conversation with someone I’m not allowed to love.
