Not much of a summer,
she said. Too cool, too wet.
Her disappointed face
irritated with weather.
Weather never gives you a thought,
I wanted to say. Didn’t.
Instead, the orderly progression
of small town talk
wide and long
never plunging
aware of the high dive
but facing away.
Another prayer for the list—
Let me remember
to reach for the jolt of the jump
shock of fast cold joy
on a hot enough summer day.
Puff Of Smoke Poems 