We will end the summer
with a terracotta sunset
just before
the sky seeks diversion
in darkening clouds
At last, spilling out
a long-sought summer rain
showering down
tap, tap, tap
drops of water
upon windows and walks
And down the street
Dina’s old air conditioner hums
a final baritone salute
to the season of the sun
The man who now lives
in Tom’s old house
packs his electrical supplies
ready for the 7 AM grind
speeding his Chevy down
Avenue H
reeling from
bottomless well drinks
and finite sleep
The Scribe of Grant Street
turns to his pen
and begs it not to scribble
the truths of sad nations
or the heartbreak of dead seasons
but rather to forge ahead
and record the sounds of
the living, breathing neighborhood
the exclamations of Connie on the corner
dissing the sorority tarts
as the postman sloshes
split, splat through
the impending rainfall
