This Summer (A George Bilgere Imitation) - Poem by Meg Lutz
Sheryl Crow’s on the radio,
taunting me. She’s soaking up the sun,
and I’m soaking wet
as I sit on top of the water slide, counting
darker storm cloud after dark storm cloud.
The screams and complaints of children drift
up to me as their limbs hit the wintery water,
each splash sounding like its own mini-explosion, one more
ice cube kerplunk-ing into a glass.
Bees dance around my head,
whispering what I already know:
it is definitely not pool weather. But I understand
exactly how they feel, and God knows
it's a terrible thing to have
a not-so-sunny summer,
wearing sweats instead of shorts, looking sadly
to the sky, hoping
to coax the sun out of hiding,
to tell everyone to lighten up.
But swimmers stand stunned, shivering,
making feeble attempts to cover
as much surface area as possible
on their goosebumpy bodies
with an already rain-dampened beach towel, as if
that would do any good–
as if it would magically erase the chill
of sixty-eight degree water,
the sting of a slap in the face, the
pathetic sound of the seasons laughing
at their prank, taunting
as Sheryl Crow sings on
about soaking up something
these swimmers will not be seeing anytime soon.
Some girls have all the luck.
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