a good attempt

Little drops of condemnation
fall from the
lightning-storm cloud,

forming pools of
fingerprint sweat.

What am I doing?
Lying

baking in the
gaze of a
late summertime
storm.

Biased ambassadors
leave a crinkled note
on the doorstep,

asking us to
step it up,
to keep it down,
and to water
the plants nextdoor.

I have nothing
to contribute
except
a scrambled
figment

which lies above