Being a dog-days-of-summer poem,
it will ramble. It will sit distracted
on the porch, rock back and forth, back and forth
to the cadence of cicadas, bumping
with the desultory thump the dog’s tail
makes on the floor. There will be a pitcher
of lemonade or sweet iced tea sweating
on the table. It leaves a ring each time
you lift it up to pour more into your glass
gently tinkling, sounding so like wind chimes
hardly shifting in the summer-drenched heat.
The clothes hang like limp rags along the line,
refusing to stiffen. Come evening, stars
pockmark the dark while fire flies begin
winking in and out of sight. What flashes
of insight can be obtained here or there
where the crickets unwind and the tree frogs
punctuate the silence. Window screens hold
back the night, sifting cool air with each soft
puff of breeze it deems will please the reader.
