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Saturday, September 16, 2017

Summer’s Lament

The spring I like
is summer. Obvious
her clinging ways,
pawing at your neck, your thighs,
climbing your back
for the walk home.

Summer is insecure.
It’s true. Though no one
admits it. She’s anxious,
moody. It’s in the genes,
can’t be helped. A true beauty
who will smile

then hurl a wineglass
at your head. She’s sorry,
she’s hot, has no idea
what got into her –
except the humidity.

It’s a lot of sullen shit happening.
Nobody antsy for her, like
that bitch fall, who gets
ovations just for showing up.
And people so afraid

of winter, they just keep
their mouths shut.
Shuffling along, beggars
clamping down, baring cold
like birth duty.
A trip planned, summer,

                           never taken. 

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