Dog Days

The days slowly slumber in summer's liquid heat, and flowers lie comatose in parched cracked beds, as two bluejays squabble in bellicose tones raging over baptism in a twelve-dollar-ninety, nine-cent birdbath. Duke naps in freshly dug dirt beneath once green shrubs, with ears twitching away pesky flies, and I, in manly khaki shorts, and a Sooner T-shirt contemplate tug-of-war with garden weeds, but opt instead for a brew down at the bar. Dampness feels like a gauzy veil on my face, and I inhale the faint smell of tobacco as if wafts through city crowds, while loud notes leap boldly from apartment windows, and steamy mirages waver, then disappear from hot asphalt streets. With shoes that slap my heels with each step, I climb upon the barstool at Joe's, and order a draw with my cap on backwards, I watch the game... I am cool.