Meltdown Poem by Morgan Michaels

In Fahrenheit, it's forty, now,
and in the relative heat-wave
under clouds of broken wonder
the storm's fluid reductions
run down the sluices of multiple drains
like victims of a sacrifice
singing as they go
'gargle-gargle'
'onomatopoeia'
'shugla, shuga'

more sound than drown;

In tin-whistle medley
like the peepers of Spring,
they gurgle, sing
and quickly pass away,
while, high above the street
the sun, a traveling man,
shedding far more light than heat
at time and a half
sits on a cat-walk
dangling his feet
and, leaving thumb-prints everywhere,
shines with vanishing return.

The drain-refrain, if you please,
you can hear it if you listen
if you listen you can hear it
if you listen, you will
'gurgle-gurgle',
'onomatopoeia',
'shugla, shuga'