New York City, Summer 1988

The sun is a strange acidic-shade-of-pink
and metallic waves of shimmering heat obscure the asphalt –
     all I can do is sleep.

Scorched air – from the concrete sidewalks below, floats –  
through the open window.
A constant-thump-of-rap vibrates the floor
     and filters into my dreams.

Garam masala and saffron rice –
fresh falafel and Hare Krishna beans –
escape street vendors
     to invade my afternoon nap.

The rosemary, basil, sage, mint,
coaxed into existence on the kitchen ledge
may fight this battle bravely –
     but they will lose the war.