Cold Spell

Tulips busted,
summer heaved him mugged
from mosquito soup,
bad-mouthed and bare-arsed into Fall.

Fuck it all.

He wants to move south, back
into surf shacks and Nehru jackets,
drive his vintage Cutlass into valley hearts.

She spins seasons, her Lazy Susan,
slugs Mint Juleps and crme de cacao,
views rust as bronze, just east of tanned.

Let him go.

He craves boulevards and Strips (not sirloin),
tourists at Mels debating sausage with syrup,
office blocks that quake and roll.

Snow seldom falls on sombreros.

She prefers Kielbasa to kelp,
firewood over redwood, the earth unmoved,
a busboy asleep over plates.

I collect duck-decoys, for God's sake. 

© Christian Simon