The High-Water Mark

The humidity is a heavy, damp wool,

making the engine rattle and pull.

The sign is hand-painted, the letters are red,

screaming for money and wanting to be fed.

The bag is a map of the lard and the heat,

turning transparent on the passenger seat.

It looks like wet skin, or a secret you keep,

sugared and heavy and buried too deep.

I eat it alone by the side of the road,

carrying the grease like a seasonal load.