I am stuck within a constant. An invariable. A waiting. Like a Migrant Hostel- radiating transience, yet stifling all movement. They casually clip the homing pigeons wings as the residency is claimed. Perhaps they only wanted to stay the night. Or the afternoon to see Uncle Petyr, and to remark haughtily on the journey home of how his face grows thin. The lines that approach the corners of his eyes are deeper. That "he looks tired." As much as Petyr, they are stuck in the constant. The wait in the heat.
Summer brings sweat and forced family gatherings. Competitions for affection. More sweat. Maybe a little cricket. And a waiting for it all to be over.
Or for something to
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