A Fine Afternoon for Mischief

 

 
Long, wide blades of grass
Deep green, wet from rain
Tickles ankles and
The soft underbelly of bare feet
The afternoon falls warm and golden
Moist earth and decaying peaches
Perfume the air
And lend a spiciness; a sharpness
That stings the eyes and the senses
A fine afternoon for mischief
The perfect peach lay in wait on the ground
Soft, mushy and with the ability
To splat across it's target
It deposits a rotten pulp
Stinking with the occasional maggot
As proof of victory and
A well-groomed throwing arm
Three or four ripe and ready peaches start the battle
As things progress, so does the degree of rot
Until it is every ‘man’ for himself
Screams of laughter fill the air
With the occasional
Declaration of disgust
Someone just got marked
By a particularly nasty peach
Or worse, they stepped on one
Warm, damp air and body heat
Agitates the aroma
Until only one ‘warrior’ remains
Wearing the maxim:
“To the victor go the spoils”
The evening sun smiles
On the battlefield
Ripe with the carcasses
Of decimated peaches
The warriors who
In the spirit of brotherhood
And the deep desire to not stink
Link arms and walk back to ‘Headquarters’
In search of the garden hose
Where a battle of a different sort commences  

  

August (a love poem)

 

August languishes
Like the ass end of summer.
The streets are littered with melted carcasses
Slumped on park benches
And outside store fronts.
Half spoken conversations
Float laboriously in the air;
Collide into one another
In the middle of five o’clock traffic.
Horns blare, drivers swear
And interrupt the ‘thump, thump’
Of stagnant vehicles.
Sweat runs like rivers on foreheads,
Around necks,
And down backs to pool in crevices-
Uncomfortable and stinking.
Dreams of cooler weather fill the brain pans
Of malcontents, asthmatics, and anyone alive.
We sit outside a crowded ‘Tastee Freez’.
You eat your ice cream
While I drink a soda and grimace.
Children squeal and threaten each other
With their ice cream ‘swords’.
Sticky streams run down their bare arms
Attracting gnats and copious amounts of dirt.
“Street urchins” I spit out
As I lean my arm on the table,
Only to withdraw it immediately.
A milky, ketchup mess coats my skin.
“Oh, son-of-a-bitch!”
All I hear is your laughter.
My lone napkin just smears it
Leaving bits of cheap paper hanging from my arm.
You roar with hysterics,
“Street urchin!”
I pout as you clean me up,
“I’m not a child, you know.”
“Yes, you are. You’re an urchin.
But you’re my urchin and I love you.”
I melt.
If you cut me with razors
I would willingly bleed for you.
Instead, you feed me your ice cream
And drown me in your smile.