Wind is in the humid air.
Summer’s in the season’s slew.
A witch’s brew with dimpled clouds,
A mountain stew with summer’s peaks.
In the hills the air stirs chills.
In the city the dead air’s tomb-trapped still.
Time is ripe for summer’s air
Beneath the tunnels of Manhattan squares.
Construction splinters morning peace;
There is no one at ease.
I dash to dodge the crew—
I screw to hear the neighbor’s tunes.
Tonight I will have your liquor.
I’ll drink a shot and listen to silly songs.
The jazz from below the street will rise;
It’s witchcraft and summer’s in the air.
Year:
2013
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