sweet summer, kid.

Their lips were wet
and it was very
hot on the roof

and they were
not supposed to be there
all alone.

They were stoned
like the songs
said they should be.

And it was summer
and they couldn’t
help the way

their heat headed south.
Migrating for
the winter

time, antiquated and
reminding them
of their grandmother’s

doilies. Sticking
to the undersides of
skimpy skinny things

not quite ready to
make the leap they
were headed to.

Oops. I didn’t mean
to put that there
where it would

hurt you. But you
are being dramatic;
you can stop

screaming now. And
I think I hear your
dad’s door opening

downstairs. Does he
have a gun?
Gotta run.

And he’s gone
quicker than he had
come

which was pretty
fast to begin
with.