August Poem by Nassy Fesharaki

August

It is five; five PM
I stop to pray
Like Muslims’ number four
The Maghreb; for sunset.

The sun is crimson; yellow, red
We whisper our secrets
Sun winks nice as do Johns:
“Have baby.”

Expert sun knows my taste
She is my favourite scarlet
She is whore
Like the ones in Berlin
In windows.

And sun is great pimp.

“Be ready, is on way.”
Sun tells me.

I know her; what a bitch
Dad loved her
They always flirted
She outlived my dad and his old man
But still, as always
She is fresh as young girl
At sixteen, ripe and set.

Sun spoke of autumn.