Dolores Dream

The white, electric skillet of a day
threatened to sear us all away —
fat frying, spluttering — rank Chicago smeltering along,
smothered in heavy, wooly sweat,
the city knew a sad regret
for staying long in summer’s heavy.
No escape. Delirious.
So I went subterraneous.
Maybe I’d dream about Dolores'
kinda' auburn hair