The Beat of Summer
The end of summer always elicits bad poetry from me. Who knows, maybe some of this will wind up in a song, or it'll find life as a Facebook post, or I'll plug this into some future weird manifesto. Anyway … Behold!
Before the beat of summer ambles south, Remember
how June opened with such optimism,
and July sweet-talked many a prospect?
Now August burns sour,
lemon tart sour, bitter bitch end.
And autumn, moody as hell, keeps knocking at the window
slapped mad about being born.
Sure, September claims balance. But wait, just wait, it’ll enter
potholed, drunk and careless.
I’ll be there too, soon,
haymakers and boilermakers,
shaking a whiskey flask by the tail, lying about how I love the rain,
the smell of leaf rot and
all those grand plans for winter.