The following is a poem from a good friend of mine. Her work is always authentic, and a rich read. 
We Silly Proletariat | WritersCafe.org.
I.
The caterpillars chew
the garden ivy to a delicate lace,
browned and unrecognizable under August’s sun.
And the tree spiders spit
their webs into summer’s humid sigh:
the silky tendrils coat the sidewalks
coat the wooden door frames, already swollen
from exposure like grapes
bursting from the vine.
We silly proletariat only pay notice
to the electrical storms
that steep along the western horizon.
II.
We grow bored with garden parties
and decide to leave together,
driving out of the city, through back roads.
Knees to chest, I sit in your passengers seat
replaying “Oh Comely”,
screaming my favorite lines out the window…
“Know all your enemies. We know who our enemies are.”
We park at the top of the bluff,
which over looks the nuclear power plant.
Heat lightning stretches across the sky
purple and quick, flashes of a summer
we only knew from inside weak hours
with backs to the sky, hands to the wheels
which turn and churn.
We know nothing of happy vaporization.
III.
The thunder is loud
rattles your windows, shakes the floorboards.
My stockings are wet from sloshing
through puddles I thought were not deep.
You offer tea.
You bring sugar and a dry shirt.
As warm as I am, this night will end.
Day will come.
When you realize I am crying,
you place one hand on my knee,
and the other on my soft belly.
I inch away, stating,
“It’s not that kind of crying.”
