Chicago’s cicadas are dropping like flies.
They can’t keep up with the heat.
Bellies up, wings crushed, feet withered,
they stare blank at the cement with their brains.
One does one's best not to step on them.
...Not out of politeness, but from fear of that
vomitous crunch!! that is felt when one steps on
a dead, dry, crujiente insect.
They are everywhere, but avoidable.
Without them, we need more citronella candles
and have less of that wonderful white noise
humming in the early/late summer afternoons.
Summer’s leaving soon anyway.
Students are already sharpening pencils,
women are already eyeing new jackets,
even though it’s still sweltering outside.
Chicago’s cicadas had a rough time this year.
Their silence is met with radiant sunlight
and humidity that continues to sweep across
pavement, grass, skin, and else.