The Wages of Sin
       

The hood of the Chevy warmed our bare
              legs as we lay back to look at the stars;

cemeteries slept under our feet as we pushed
              muddy heels through soft dirt; ranch houses

and backyards screamed our existence,
              our dreams in rec rooms and doorways;

aunts and grandmothers canned tomatoes,
              baked pies around us, watched wistfully

the changing world through scopes strained
              to see a modern view of the rain barrel,

ominous at the corner of the house,
              where we once stood amid the heady smells

of peaches and wet grass, remembering
              long rides on straight highways vibrating

under us, cars flanked by fields of red
              embers glowing in the humidity of August,

our skin penetrated as we watched funnel
              clouds twist, furl, and jump into the sky.

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Copyright © 2021 Anne Graue All rights reserved
from Full and Plum-Colored Velvet
Woodley Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission