Tom Wright Poet Lyric

Dog Days of Summer

Dog  Days Of Summer
By: Tom Wright
9/8/98

Intense heat,
causing sparsely foliated trees
to prematurely brown.
Hot southerly breeze
burning at my nostrils
and Mother saying,
son, don't pick.
A five cent Nehi Orange
from Shue's Stand
split three ways
would be good,
and no, my hand
won't go in those Fruit jars.
make Norma wash,
she has smaller hands.
I'll rinse, It’s harder,
Tiny black harvest bugs
floating in the air
from a nearby Oat field.
I'm itching all over.
A molting dog chasing Its tail.
Wormy?
No, he just sees Mr. Williams,
the ice man.
Mama,
Joe hit me.
Kids behave yourselves!

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