A poem about summer:
An empty street and only the quiet sounds of generic
suburban life let me focus on the sound of my feet
on the pavement, the soft scrape of my soles
on the cracking blacktop.
My fingers find lint in the fleecy pockets
of my sweatshirt and roll it into little pellets,
My eyes squint against the dim sunlight
currently losing a battle with the clouds,
powerless against the overwhelming gray,
and yet my pale eyes can’t quite stand it.
A pointed brow and down-turned mouth
keep strangers from smiling.
The blank horizon is blanketed in human dust
and all the colors have left, fled this dying place
like they knew something.
I wish I knew something, wish I followed them
to where colors want to be and people know
how to live. I always figured I’d find the answer somewhere
unexpected, but all I’ve got my hands on
these days is lint.
As a kid, summertime was so exciting. No more school, no responsibilities, you could stay up late and eat ice cream every day and play all the time. At least that’s what it seemed like. That’s how we like to remember it. As an adult, with no scheduled breaks from reality and responsibility, summer is less thrilling. It’s almost like a 3 month long reminder that nothing, in fact, gets easier, there are no breaks, and if you eat ice cream every day you will get fat. I haven’t had a good summer in a while. Every summer for the past few years something has happened, something that makes the rest of the summer less than enjoyable. What is it about summer time that makes us feel invincible? I always seem to be blind sided by my sad experiences, like I think nothing bad can happen when it’s so beautiful outside. For me, summer has become something I wish to get through as quickly as possible, and that too, makes me sad.