Because Summer is like a High School fling;
her faux-blonde bun tied atop her head
wrapped in box-braids—wild weave feeding
her hungry sunsets.
Because summer is
cliché, like cherry
lipstick on the salted rim of a shot glass, or a
pair of suede boots propped up on the dusty
dashboard of a parked car in the middle of
July—traces of hearts
under the heels, and
pointing upward at high-vaulted stars in the
humid room of night. Because it’s scrapped
knees— blood and dirt under and over
fishnets… an itch; the
distressed denim of a
bleached pant leg.
Because she’s a pin-up pixie waving at me from
the bitch-seat; a damn sunflower, and a rose
at the same fucking time, and I think I’m jealous.