Summer’s comin

Summer’s comin around the corner like 
police 
looking to whup somebody’s ass.
Summer’s got a Super Soaker
full of hot sauce, an
asphalt trenchcoat. He just ate
the last ice cream sandwich
on earth. 

Take solace in vacant lakes 
without shadow,
in the largesse
of the double-chocolate cookie.
Find relief 
in magnolia blossoms
opening at the mention of your name.
Stand on a balcony
overlooking the ocean
and weep at the material splendor
our violence has generated.

The truth is we don’t know
what any of this is or 
why it’s happening.
The other truth is that knowing
wouldn’t help us anyway.

People are dreading it still, 
they’re booking flights 
to Seattle, 
to London of all places. The dog
is packing up and moving
underneath the porch
to sleep in the damp dust. Me, 
I’m not going anywhere.
I’m that kid in Neil Young’s 
“Powderfinger,” 
I’m dumb as dogshit 
and I know it 
but I’m not afraid 
to sweat. A little death,
a little growth.
Get in, loser, we’re
Slouching towards Bethlehem to be born.