Warm in the Shade

Under the live oak the cube is warm. It was not warm a minute ago, on the sill.

You sit on the curb and put one palm on it and the other on the concrete. The concrete is cool. You count to ten. Nothing evens out.

In the branches the grackles are making every sound they have, all at once. You turn the cube and read it again. WHOEVER on every face, and the sixth still upside down.

A woman goes by with a mesh bag of grapefruit. A man on a bike. Two kids sharing a pair of earbuds. Nobody asks what it is.