it was broiling in the car. The house was brown
and chalky. Next to it, a dead rodent lay on its side,
rotting. We expected these things in America.
An onion field provided a quick glimpse
into the void of summer. We felt a spasm of grief,
so we soothed ourselves with a thermos
of cold mint tea. Once the luggage was propped
next to the car, we walked stiffly into the house,
which quivered in the heat. Now and then a bluejay
or an airplane made us look up at the sky,
which was errantly blue, as though it
was overloaded with pigment put there by vandals.
Had we been scotch drinkers, we would have
sat on the porch in the faded yellow
butterfly chairs, and drank it from children's cups
with various cartoon characters on them.
Instead, we decided to christen the house
with a round of fucking, which we did, vigorously.