Bleed summer out with
empty hands like broken bottles,
and a shoe that never fits;
crickets don’t play their songs
on plywood violins, anymore.
They left patchwork melodies
where dissonance tastes like danger;
a hurricane and tequila, toothpick
umbrella on the side.
And puke pink lemonade
on a not-so-virgin sidewalk,
murky with chalk art
and summer skin, browning
like peach pie.
Water-drunk lawns
at fifty cents a gallon,
and green-apple grass clippings
to let all ninety degress
of raw freedom
to tear a heart wide open.
Poet's Corner 