It Might’ve Been Florida But It Wasn’t
There was a time when gossip never
traveled beyond the town limits,
and what was published as news
was already known. You might’ve
staggered around in extreme heat
and humidity as if drunk. Always,
summer was a fun-run-carnival
until the middle of September.
And scandals, they’d lie hard and
long below white cotton sheets,
and girls chased rainbowed-spray
from chattering sprinklers that
sounded like furious squirrels.
And come July, we unified as one
under the name of God and Jesus
for the annual church picnic, and
that was what we called growing-up,
and grownups called it The Cold War.