Autumn Ends in Houston
Landing at George W. Bush international airport,
I think of teens cruising down sixteen-lane streets
And climbing mile-high overpasses, racing in my little green truck
Flying over the crest, spying skyscrapers in the east,
Dreaming of takeoff.
All the sweat we shed in the thick late-night heat,
Survivors reveling under the city’s oldest tree,
Reliving another night of service.
Beasts that will never see the sea again,
Drinking in our slow suicide,
Dying to be freed.
Therefore,
When the bayous dry
At the end of hurricane season,
The end of November,
We stop hunkering down
And leave our homes to feel the air unfiltered.
