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Indian Summer Night by Andrew Bertaina

The sand rips into my tender feet. While the ho hum and drum drum beats an insane rhthm to my fingertips. Which are hanging on by a thread. For hope of some lover's tongue to shape them. And I wonder if the clorox is still spilled on the floor. Transfixed by a missile, that has carved out a piece of the sky. Millions of dollars resting in a pocket of light. Beauty and destruction united. Cleopatra of the night. I walked to get a deeper look and slipped on crusty oil. and smashed my tender head. For the next six years, I would talk of flowers. And how they melted when I touched them. About butterflies that metamorphized into caterpillars. And of children, Joey who always loved the smell of sawdust. And Jamie, who never could spell kat correctly. Come to think of it, I don't know any kids. I wonder what happened that Indian summer night?