Beneath the hills, at their feet
Some of them sprouting steel spikes with red stripes
Pouring foliage, great hulking vines that choke and burp and slither into town
Paris streets in the jungle
This one, clumsy leaning hairy canopy
Across, a Taxi birdhouse a deaf driver
here, spinning plastic blades coated in dust and sand throwing warm oxygen perpendicular to sweat
Newspapers and magazines flutter and flap and yearn for the indoors
For a coffee table for air conditioning
The old woman at the stand sits unmoving and silent
Flies buzz by and sing:
"Oh here we are, here we are. Oh here we are, here we are. It's god damned hot!"
The hills tower and watch, quiet, sleepy