Of August Afternoons

as for the afternoons
when dry heat crept down the stairs
and rubbed itself into the darkest corners
curbed by blankets over windows
reheating stacks of cd's on the floor
and faded chucks discarded by the door
empty glasses and crumpled sketches

the books and bottles saw it all
murmurs on the radio
sleeping swathed in golden light
quiet afternoons and smoggy evening
whisperings, figures retreating
warm asphalt nights under pinprick lights
and the distant orange glow of the city

now nothing left but old mutterings
of empty rooms and vacant streets