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!