HATS AND NIGHTMARES

A thousand men slept at noon.
Siesta and no tomorrow.
The young man in the corner wore his father’s sombrero;
A shady swimming lesson.
There were no sharks or life preservers.
Not even a drop of water.
Only sand;
Sand and wind.
Solemn powers of involuntary will that stir.

Quick, 
little shadows 
darted about, 
outlining the unfathomable boundaries of the sky.

One acute, 
miniscule insect 
bit him on the arm and the restless watched his dreamy face.
Inside, they mused for a second and grieved the weather.
This, this day, was not a day for work.
Instead, the crowd dissolved back into the fields, 
bringing with them their hats.
One or two hopeful faces turned back for a moment, 
only to return quickly to memory.
A stinger, once pulled out, always leaves some poison. 
Memo to the forgetful.
Medicine of monotony.
Now, like the young man, 
the sombrero gathers dust.


-Bradford Peyton