June poem

Romance


Admit you don't love aimless June,

the midsummer month, too hot to stress

& sweat & fidget beneath the moon.

The bullfrog's oboe tones obsess

the reeds, throaty come-ons for copper snakes.

Well, that's pretty nice. Perhaps the month is moot.

& there's the namesake bug, its anticake-

walk leavings, chairs for former marchers, beaut-

iful jewels clipped to the screens, as if bedecking Garbo's

swanny neck, the dramatic arc of a sultry drive-in play.

She could save all summer. She could kiss the hobo,

then he'd go on to earn it, to get a designer day

job tying hankies to sticks. They'd lie under rhinestone

skies off the tracks to Texas. She'd learn to love his rank cologne.




From For Girls (& Others), originally published in Court Green as part of their bouts-rimes dossier in issue #3.