When it's Summer

When the tar is oozing

sticky black lines in the street

and children poke at it with sticks

on their way home

from the pool on the corner,

where it’s too hot to even swim,

to the houses closed up dark to keep in the cool,

you know it’s summer.

When checking for the mail is too much effort,

and wearing any clothes a chore,

as the fans whirl high speed

and fat dogs lay panting on kitchen floors,

their masters stepping over them to open refrigerators,

and curse the fierce days,

and dread the sultry nights to come,

you know it’s summer.

When the cricket’s chirp is one long sound

all sweaty night long,

and the cotton curtains hang as limp

as the sheets kicked to the floor,

while even moths cling listless to the screens

waiting for a nonexistent breeze,

and nature itself is holding her fevered breath,

you know it’s summer.

The Versesmith