The Worst of Times
The seasons come; the seasons go.
But summer will be leaving slow.
He likes to stay, so sheets are wet
From skins that pour at night with sweat.
The summer’s swelter starts when spring
Departs. He slips, on us, his ring.
And so, when summer’s in our bed,
We sigh and yield, for we are wed.
A marriage made in hell, indeed!
So summer rides upon his steed
That neighs, protesting, but in vain.
So each must bear the summer’s pain.
And some seek air-conditioned bliss,
While others, at their weakness, hiss.
And others yet, by ocean-side,
Then find relief, with wind and tide.
There’s June, but then there is July.
By August, we are asking, “Why?”
But even when September’s here,
Summer’s heated breath is near.
October comes, and he departs!
And some might grieve, with broken hearts,
But others then rejoice. We’re free,
By autumn’s grace, from tyranny!
We know, alas, that he’ll return,
And even more, with ardor, burn.
From summer, we might seek divorce,
And yet he’d take us with his force.
And so we pray that he will alter
Predilections—or will falter.
But it seems he does not age,
And every year we bear his rage.
So summer comes with all his sin,
For summer’s sun can burn the skin,
And even when the midnight chimes,
We suffer, in these worst of times.
2015 July 8th, Wed., 1:10 pm
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York