Whatever the climate where you are,
Happy 4th of July!! Holiday or no !!
<3 Pea <3

The Heat, the Bugs, the Je-ne-sais-quoi
 
July storms into town, intent on gaining clout.
Branches crack mid-way and plummet
on fresh-tiled roofs.  Fuses give up
the ghost.  Computers simply can't imagine
what they're going to do.  Crashes flummox
and clocks are so frantic, their pulses race.
Sun peeks through clouds in uniforms
make them look fat.   Color:  bruise.
One minute  the thunderheads won't move,
the next, they are bumping chests.  More rain
swells them sullen and resentful, yet
they shiver just thinking of letting go.
         Rampage over, leaves, grass, and rock
catch light from a ball of fire.  Look
and smell clean as the day they were born.
Weeds are three times their size, flowers
one and a half.  Rivers, lakes, and streams
take time to reflect.  Roars reduce to songs,
songs to hums.  Bones that ached ease
and muscles flex.  Hung-over,  memory
waves a flag and vows to take a break.
Waffles with July a few days.  Now  hot
and sticky, now sticky and hot.  Brief
dry spell a tease.  Honeysuckle and sweat
perfume still air, ratcheting up sex.  Highways
throb as workers fudge time cards and honk
home to jump back from charcoal and raw,
char-chevroned dogs or max out at ATM's
and push boat-dragging lemons or SUV's
stuffed with snorkel fins to beach to mountain
to grandma to museum.  Plaid blooms
on links, babies bloom on campgrounds
and in parks.  Wheeeeeeee. waaaa waaaa.
One more time, taking you ho–. . .wheeeeee.
How far is it now?  Mom?   Dad?  I'm hungry.
I need to pee.   Malls and cineplexes, AC'd
arctic, draw like shell games and pink cotton
candy.  Piers sway as sea of humanity meets  
sea and salt air.  Water skiers ski, flop,  sail-
boats tack-stop.  Record runs on ice cream,
smoothies, fro-yo, tea.  Corn-on-the-cob
dripping butter,  melons dripping seeds.
 Co'Cola, Pepsi, brews, and umbrella drinks
gullet as sparklers sizzle and rockets soar.
Zinnias flower earth and sky flame.  Bodies,
paradeable or not, parade.  Strange shortage
of cloth.    July, too rich but not at all
too thin, doles us a breeze at a time
and plots to pack sand in one more crotch.  
No wonder the bee-yotch is so full of herself.
     
Bit uptight about what rival August plans
to cook up.  Always something steamy.

 

                 (c) Phyllis Jean Green,  July, 2006