a market cart crawls across blacktop wielded by a 3x-teed waddler, she's crossed by some slow sauntering slack-panted meanderers bearing beer and then two turbaned ladies, heads wrapped against the heat but with backs bare backs to the breeze, drag brats that scream, bleat ignored by the blue-haired bottle returner redeeming plastic, salvaged and tacky, crushing gathered cans for rations-- nickel and diming her way to her next sleeve of saltines. dodge. stop. not patient today. eager to be anywhere but wading these waves, walking and halting and waiting for the parade to abate my feet cross quick, and stick: tacky black rivulets melt in the swelter add to the track that trails me, them, us as aluminum and glass gape to let us pass.