The sky stayed a faded, pale gray-blue;
stone washed denim, dried out by the heat
of a late summer sun, whose sick, jaundiced hue
flattened thin clouds and melted the street.
That platinum, mad, metallic, bright disc
that laughed through June, by July, was hissing.
Even the wind, who fought hard to be brisk,
fell victim, and by August was noticeably missing.
The cicadas hatched under that scalding sphere.
The grass, dessicated, finally crunched into brown.
All agreed that summer was sadistic that year,
and we prayed for dusk, when the devil went down.
~ © C.L.R. 2014 ~