Heat Wave

Only as an old man did he hear the old saying that a beardless person neither ages nor dies. Shaving his beard with a shaky hand each morning, he discovered new dreams. If  I were to be reborn,... please don’t let me be reborn. This was his first prayer. From the moment he learned to cry on his own, he’s been crying in the street. We all cry when we’re born, so please, I don’t want to cry again. This was his second prayer. He shaved his beard, dropped fake tears in his eyes, gathered his hands, and checked his vision. Nauseating light poured down. If  I did have a secret—is it okay if he prays a third time?—it’s this: Day after day, I sweep leaves off the streets and wipe windows. I wonder how much time I’ve wasted outside. They say people’s hands were freed when they learned to walk upright. Why do all the flowers around here bloom from trash?  Clearing the trash from under the magnolia tree, he thinks to himself: This day, in which sad prayers come spilling out of his hands, is too hot.