Greens, whites and lethargic television,
procession to tennis from the cricket
as a thermometer of diminishing return
audiences. Tickets run cheaper than shade,
the clouds have their own cheer squad.
Mercury lashes like a madman's drum,
demented lover of broil, thrashing in ecstasy
as if beset by some ghast succubus of
bubbling skin and ashen flesh. An idea
of summer flown too close to the sun.
I imagine another landscape under this gleam,
with lavender and orris wilted faster
than the viscous flattening of Clyde Bruckman's
final repose; larch, pine and willow followed
into shuddering black by a hot town.
Summer in the city, and there's cleavage,
cleavage, cleavage. Lethargy wears tiny shorts
in my kingdom. For a dollar or two
I watch my baby fumble about an icy pole;
marvel at those white legs, fat against the glare.
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Includes suggestions from:
@ernmalleyscat: The Cricket as a Thermometer (1897 article by Amos Dolbear)
@chantarelle: my kingdom for a
@JayJayCee1: larch, pine and willow followed
@home_sewn: with lavender and orris
@MissButtons_: Clyde Bruckman's final repose
@spikelynch: madman's drum (title of a wordless 1930s novel by Lynd Ward)
@miguelpotts: Hot town, summer in the city
@timsterne: beset by some ghast succubus (Cormac McCarthy, Child of God)
(the lines in italics are from the Regina Spektor song 'Summer in the City')
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