There’s a drought on and everything’s going towards dead.
There’s a drought on and the sun has gone mean with heat.
I could bake cookies in my car.
I sweat and think of Brooklyn, where there was no drought but no air conditioning either. I was about as young as you can be and still be an adult. My white shirts went to yellow. I thought I’d soon publish in the New Yorker.
There’s a drought on and my inbox fills with work requests and newsletters and promises of Vegas.
I could stay in the desert for $35 a night. More fun than waiting for the desert to come to me. Which I think it’s trying to do.
I assume we’ll irrigate and overuse and predict the best of outcomes.
I don’t think I’ve ever felt rain. Not once.
Not even in Brooklyn. Which may have been a fever, come to think of it.