SUMMER’S DOG DAYS

by Mariane Holbrook 

Summer’s playing lazy. 
Spreading her long, pastel chintz 
around her like a queen, 
she leans back against the white wicker 
on the shaded front porch 
and swats aimlessly at flies 
whose mission statement is to annoy her. 

Summer is tired of men 
whose clubs scar her manicured turf, 
of spoiled women who listlessly 
fan themselves by their pools 
and complain endlessly of her unrelenting heat, 
of sun-burned children who bury each other 
in wet sands on her scalding shores. 

Summer was welcomed by the masses in June
but in August, she’s despised; 
they want her gone. 
They reflect audibly on the past pleasures of spring 
and the vagaries of a cool, early fall, 
but can’t find one good word to say 
about these dog days of late August. 

So, closing her eyes and ridding her mind 
of all the ridicule and petty complaints, 
Summer counts the days 
til her job is done 
and she can finally discard 
her parasols and beach balls 
and lemonade, and gnat-covered picnics 
and wait patiently for next year 
when selfish people like these 
once again yearn and beg for her return.