In Which It's To Fucking Hot Everywhere I Go.

one time i saw
this old, half-burned cigarette
on the sidewalk that was so hot
if you dripped water on it
it would most certainly
hiss and steam like the skillet
after you fry eggs,
when you stick it under the running faucet
just for that sensory experience
of cold on heat,
and that cigarette was still smoldering
a little, like the coals do
on the grill
after a big family barbecue,
where your dad got a little too drunk on cooler beers
and your mom ate a little too much potato salad
and you played a little too much in the sun,
but some of the tobacco
had fallen out of the paper
and was strewn
in a line out from the filter
as if the wind had blown it like leaves,
like every late August when
everything living isn't,
but is brown and parched
and covers the ground in scentless,
temporary piles,
and i thought how maybe
i read too much into things
sometimes.