Southern summer came back to us.
Black ants are crawling
on the kitchen counter
and in my bed.
I’ve got a glass of grape juice
and a pill to put me under,
so I can ignore the
tickling of tiny legs
walking over me.
The soles of my feet
are dried out from
running around on
the beach all night.
There’s still sand
between my toes
from the cartwheels
and front flips.
The three of us
stripped down
to our underwear
and got waist-deep
in the water.
Their imperfect smiles
and her cleavage
were flashing beneath
the dirty yellow moon.
We didn’t see
anyone else out
the whole night.
They started kissing,
so I left them there,
wading in the lake.
I didn’t feel left out.
I just walked
down the road to
your house and
climbed up on your roof.
I tried to imagine how
it might be if you were home
and not vacationing with your
family somewhere in the
salty air of Florida.
My face swelled up
from happiness
or bee stings.
4 comments:
Reading what you write is strangely contenting.
this is nice. i always try to write about the seasons but it comes out so trite.
TRJ, i remember a few people saying something to that effect when i wrote in the blog i had before this one. i wish i was smart enough to figure out how to write in a style that made people feel like that whenever i wanted.
i get that sort of feeling when i read certain writers and i really enjoy it, so maybe they're just rubbing off on me.
april, i always feel weird writing about seasons because it's so overdone, but this entry was non-fiction so i felt more okay about it. i just stated facts.
Sometimes I think it's contenting because you 'just stated facts'.
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