by Ellery Sorkin
White Hot Monday
Gentle wind gets out of hand, unruly
flurries dusting faces:
ancient grizzled camera-laden lecher
drifts from group to group, mutters:
“Care for a misting may I take your picture?”
only said to topless girls, of course.
They flounce and flutter
sultry eyes, and pout and pose
with friends, so natural that friends and breasts should touch
below their playa-powdered faces, Burning geishas
for a burning man.
9:05 a.m. and mercy – clouded skies!
Mountains still distinct but not so crisp
look sharply up
and hope to cut a slice of rain
from this, our friendly liquid parasol.