In the summer sticky heat
Sam rocks gently back and forth.
The aroma from his pipe scenting the sultry night air.
Blending with jasmine, oleander, cooking, garbage cans.

On his veranda he sits, watching through scotch taped specs,
barefoot kids kicking empty cans in the dusty road.
He swats "damn flies". His brown, creased face fixed in a half smile.
Rocking, watching.

The muted background symphony of crickets, radios T.V. sets,
raised voices, dogs barking, sirens, fans whirring.
Barely audible to him now.
Wiping his brow with a sodden handkerchief, he sits
rocking, watching.

Teenage boys, faded Levi's, jet black hair, slouching
against withered tree trunks on the waste ground,
smoking, beer drinking.
Sam, invisible. Rocking, swatting, watching.

Teenage girls sprawled on the sun baked ground,
huddling, giggling.
Sweat trickling between small brown breasts.
Long wiry legs crossing, uncrossing.
Coyly glancing behind, sniggering.

The boys saunter over, teasing, laughing.

Sam watching, rocking, swatting.

They pair up and slowly stroll towards the trees.

Sam watching, remembering, reminiscing.