Summer

Summer

Summer

       
A trip to the corner shop will take all day
But what the fuck: you need a can of Coke.
You see the air is wrinkled like your shirt
                    And feel at home

With those young blokes all lounging round with beer
And a TV just chirping with the cricket,
Then there’s the guy who teaches something French
                    Hosing his car,

And the youngish wife outside with her long legs
And her big husband off in Singapore       
For what must be his second month up there
                    Doing software:

There’s more to say, you know, about the booze,
The crying in the backyard late at night,
About the smell of thunder in the dark
                    And that walk back.