cicada prayer

late August sun washes the people

out of the city

flotsam of human detritus on the avenue

bent old man, sweating, swearing,

obsessively scraping weeds from the sidewalk

and the bearded lady dwarf ranting at

nothing in the air

and me, some kind of wounded derelict

wandering the streets in the midday sun

but the cicadas song is more persistent now

righteous hum, autumnal voice of prayer

a petition and harbinger

of that great good time, and place

when the leaves and cicadas die

and the chilly winds breathe life again

into the city, into the streets