Summer is backstage, running her lines
till her big scene, the one with fireworks.
Or, a different rumor,
Summer is stuck in traffic, flipping the radio
dial, Ray-Bans on, searching for an oldies station.
Or she is perched on a chair
in a waiting room, listening
to the clock tick on the wall
thumbing through year-old magazines
as she jots down recipes for
grilled shrimp, watermelon ice,
strawberry lemonade.
Wherever she is,
Summer is tapping her bare foot
sick of being patient
sick of taking turns.
Her bags are packed, full of picnics
and sunscreen, ditch lilies, ice cream,
concerts on the lawn.
Ready.
Puff Of Smoke Poems 