Ninety-two degrees.
The pool deck
shimmies and shines
like an opal carpet.
Scorched sapphire globes fall,
exhausted and spent.
If they were elbows or knees
they'd be scraped—
a tang of blood would
tease the humid air.
Instead, my arms and legs
gather freckles, while
emerald leaves
shrivel and curl
in the four o' clock sun.
Last year's stiff stalks
poke up behind—
angry words hiding
in lush undergrowth.
Dry and brown,
a shade lighter than
this morning's coffee,
with a smell
of something burnt.
Forgotten and brittle, they'd
break
like a promise
in one snap.
