In the smoggy mist

neighboring villages

are drenched;

I drive the road  home

in the lighted grove.

 

On every dusty window

in the summer heat

finger prints-

the clawing of children

bored by confinement?

 

It is a thing of sorrow,

the rumble of cars

before my house, at noon

in the summer wind

 

Does the reflection

on my dust coated window

feel the same?