(And in the darkness, some aging dude with a bandanna wrapped around his forehead flicks open his Zippo, holds it to the sky and cries, "Play free verse!")
In my head, it started out as a cheerful burst of autumn tribute. Then, it kinda went all Stephen King-y. Go figure. Like I said, I suck at poetry.
summer steam
and swelter
dried and crushed
under heel
that first crisp night
of autumn
it’s here.
that ray bradbury time
when youth turns sour
and age grows painful
the midways close
the fairs leave town
their carnival wake scented, cloying
with fried sugar dough
and animal musk
they leave deep furrows
in the brow of the soil and
crime scene trails of
sno-cone debris
paper cups stained blue
with summer’s blood
that turn and drag in the wind
the wind
the wind that’s
a little cooler
than the day
before
as summer gasps
and school returns
and childhood dies a little bit
each time the leaves run riot
in orange
gold and red
the air smells of leaf fires
baked goods and pumpkins
and elmer’s glue
stuck between
short, fat fingers and
construction paper
small-town cheerleaders shine in
a bonnie bell bonfire glow
while the football players leer
from a homecoming float
corn-fed pulchritude
firm and young and ripe
for the picking
for the harvest
before the snap
and the chill
and winter
comes