August

Trying to wrest some logic out of a perfect Saturday afternoon in August
To extract some meaning from the flawless day that finds you moving – easily –
between the rays of sunshine
The pace – on days like these – alternates between lazy and slow
And you stop for a minute to try and capture it
To lock it away on this fresh little tablet – procured from the grocer
You can bring these recollections out on a less than perfect day
Maybe you can betray these words for pieces of silver in hopes of making an impact:

I
There are boys in the schoolyard behind the square residential units
Their biggest fear is not being able to hit the longball
Their only flaw is their aluminum bat
Where is the wooden bat tonight?

There is a girl in the schoolyard on rollerblades
A lifetime ago she would have interrupted one of our games
She is the original distraction factor
But boys could never cry

II
There is a melancholic nostalgic feeling gripping the young man’s gut on a breezy, sunny
Saturday afternoon
The feeble roar of the man-made waterfall does nothing to assuage or incite the grip
The sound is simply a static irritant like when you can’t tune in the radio
Like when you fall asleep in front of the TV and wake up after the station has signed off
This is not a summer sound – it is not rhythmic or sensual – it is ugly
The young man sits on a rock and scratches words onto a fresh little tablet
His stomach and his heart are locked in this melancholic embrace
His mind rolls back the black and white film of all of the Augusts before this one
The Augusts before life began to pin his shoulders to the mat
That brief flicker of time when nothing mattered and he didn’t care if it did
His body was stronger and much more flexible back then
Minutes seemed like hours then and distance was completely distorted
Each day was a symphony – his soul was the conductor
Each day was a joyful sonic mystery that he was unaware of at the time
But now he misses them desperately
He is sitting on the rock composing the final movement of the concerto he’ll call August

III
The artist is growing slowly older
He forces the words onto the paper
The waning days of summer get caught in his throat
He doesn’t want to write so much
As he wants to hold the pen up
Let the pen do the writing
The waning days of summer are on the tip of his tongue
The last days of another August
The last few bittersweet minutes
Of the waning days of summer
Roll around in his stomach
When he steps out into the humid night

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