Winter Amnesties

Last Poem of Summer

71 Last Poem of Summer Front doors in the neighborhood Still fly at full staff The flag of the ladybug, the watermelon flag, As if summer had not Sucked in its last wormy breath. Let me put that in French: It’s all over, bud. Zippo. Detruit. The news hasn’t reached Those couples on the sidewalk, Pushing their fat kids in a stroller, Or those women In their running shoes, pushing fifty, Who must live on a diet of Cabbage and kitty litter, Keeping in shape For the cold approval Of the mirror or the man. Shall I compare myself to a summer’s day? Here’s how the day begins: Rosy-fingered dawn Leaves its prints all over the lawn furniture, And some birds with a Skittery cry have started up, Backstory to the wretched headlines The morning paper throws at my feet— 72 Not the sparrows of Aphrodite, Or the dove, or the lovebirds We put behind bars, a parody of parrots, Their naked singing so loud It makes even the bull-bent libido Pull in its pointed horns. And here’s how it ends: Above the smoke from the late mowers, A barbecue of stars, a moon Like gin and tonic on the rocks, And you in your peacock robe, Wet silk That ripples on the limbs and then Drains down behind you. I could say my love Stays longer than The six dynasties of China, rising As if I’d lunched on Goat glands and supped on monkey nuts— But who would believe that? All right, I’m the Runt of summer, rotting in the haze, A mind of mildew and the red Hinges of the heart Stuck shut. It’s the tail end of the season, The light short and the nights impatient with A traffic of sticky shadows. The hot rain Cuts in on the bias, and I can’t Tell it from my own excited sweat. 73 That wind Sloppy in the trees Will soon bring down the weatherglass To the first pall of frost. And what flags Will the streets fly then, If not white for surrender, or black For the piracies of fall? ...