Augusts Are Summer's Sundays

I remember myself stretched out on my parents vomit orange living room floor, all the windows open except the checkerboard front window, the pre-Indian Summer breeze, sans humidity, sans oven baked air, sans the songs of cicadas strain through the black mesh screens that kept the soon to be dying mosquitoes from dying on our window sill while the ash tray colored fly struggled against the cooler air.

I remember late night, last minute drags through Target, families packed like wolves, moms howling at pups--Do you want Rainbow Brite? Large ruled or college ruled? Why do you need a green pen for math?--myself staring at the blue notebook cover I will soon tag with innocent graffiti, keep secrets in along its spiral spine, and make crooked notes my teacher couldn't decipher with the Rosetta Stone.

I remember my stomach twisting at night, realizing these were my last days to sleep in, devour a bowl of Cocoa Pebbles, and another, and another, cataloging the summer places I hadn't visited (Great America, Jazz in the Park, The Domes), and the places I wanted to return to (Mayfair Mall, Brookfield Square Mall, Southridge Mall).

August is baseball's warning track for my mind
Sundays are two-minute warnings
there are no time outs
or fouls to give
I simply play out these last days/hours
holding onto the play of the last months/weeks
         late night coffee after Alewive's comedy
         the cinnamon-orange latte at a humid Gill's
         early morning bus rides to malls
         the permeating black top at Summerfest
         camp fire laughter turned tall tales of fright
the daunting prognosticating that future days
will have no play.