Corner store.

Sticky.

Not the sort that comes from glue,
that comes from fresh pitch,
or gelanized sugar.
Nor is it the sort that comes from too much drink,
too much sleep,
too much of a wonderful evening,
breathing the sweet perfume of another
until reason and passion are utterly spent.

No.

Its that tackiness,
born of excessive heat and the smell of grass
slowly baking in a relentless sun.
Of refuse and carrion
simmering in the open air oven of early July.
Of tar, hot oil and exhaust.

Our great potential,
now left rotting and disused,
seeks oblivion.