Give me your tired, your poor, we say.

                            We will return them overworked and underpaid. 

It wasn't hot for once. Ohio remains hot every summer but the night seems to be like cold water poured over a fire pit:

the heat lightens up but the smoke of it hangs in the air, the remnants of what it was before.

Your God is not my God.  Stay with me now, I know this makes your hackles rise, your hands raised in the spiteful fear that you could be challenged. The fear of fraud.