August
August again
The end of summer
The end of something you
Never got around to naming
Nostalgia arises for a Scheherazadean haze
Obscuring the details of what
Must have been your very own life
Join me for a drink in the Florida room
Where the ceiling fan rattles like a loose grocery cart wheel
And no one should be forced to endure these chairs
Wasps leer on the other side of the screen
But there isn’t anything to say
We listen, note the inconsistency of odors
Realize we’re out of gin
Out of gas
I should have mowed the grass
It’s high time we harvested the fruits
Of our own forgetfulness
8/15/23
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