Prelude To Summer

22 the minnesota review D. L. Crockett-Smith Prelude To Summer From the stockyards seeps the smell of slaughter. Pigeons grow still and drop from buildings. A shrivelled dog is eating grass. How thin my hands have grown! I would sing but ozone wrings my throat. I walk the streets and play my music loud. My mother goes to church. My dad was shot by cops. My sister just quit school with another mouth to feed. I know what I must do. My eyes are cold and deep. How shrill the music screams. The sun was born this morning with a grey mask on his face. ...