A Taste of Summer
Summer, to me, is an overripe peach:
It’s messy and drips on your face.
At this time, it’s usually quite out of reach,
Impatiently eying spring’s space.
Yet once in a while, it plans an attack,
So sneaky you aren’t prepared
For the sweat that will suddenly roll down your back
And the bellies the women have bared.
Most people seem thrilled – there they are in their shorts,
Their flip-flops and tank tops or tees;
The crowds fill the streets and the weather reports
Tell us it might hit ninety degrees.
So I don my capris and, Scrooge-like, I go out,
Not enjoying my sweaty shirt-cling;
And I hope that the weatherman carries some clout
‘Cause he said next week we’re back to spring!
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