Some are, Some Aren't 23.

It hasn’t rained since early July; it’s late August and the temperatures are in the high thirties.

Heatwaves.

Steve isn’t at home.

He’s packed up most of his stuff and is sleeping outside somewhere.

Maybe on the beach.

Probably on the grass.

Although I pass his place every morning, there is no sign.

So I guess he’s happy.

I hope so.

I think he’s coming back because there’s a pile of the rest of his stuff, practical stuff, stacked alongside where he normally sleeps.

Under the overpass.

A pile of empty wooden crates that will make good firewood in the winter.

Spare plastic, neatly folded for when the rains come.

Not yet, but they will.

The winter will return too.

And then Steve.

There is shelter here, warmth from the passing cars too.

But the poison of their exhausts will kill him.

Lest he gets away.

int (in a sa/sa) 65