end of summer battle cry

The days are long and the short of it is that we are spendthrift with our time

in hot and quiet houses, warm graves,

the air conditioners crouching in windows like gargoyles.

They give a death rattle, but no relief.

Part of you likes the damp

that pools in the small of your back.

The heat makes you expansive and slow,

dripping over the couch like denim-clad molasses.

You remember that summer does not always reign.

You sleep as much as you can, drink as much as your body allows, and check the weather every day.

Summer is burning itself, be patient, and soon it will be fall, then winter, and you can tuck the year’s previous seasons away like you do its clothes.

Only to unpack them next year, and weep.

The sun, an unwelcome remembrance,

But it is still the now, and you wait, flushed and expectant,

for the day to close its eyes.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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