August … you scumbag. You hideous rot of shit.
Choking the moon in the gas chamber created by your dragon breath.
The fog rolls in but traps some poison near the sea,
blowing the rest into the mountains
where we three breathe in gin and vodka and tequila
and dine on mother’s chocolates
but she doesn’t care.
She does, however, mind our laughing,
for it’s a party she cannot attend,
trapped as she is in a morphine maze,
a tear at one point I caused. I am sorry mother.
August, I despise the sight of my green bean plant,
chewed to the ground by those beasts you sent.
Those ugly sightless pirates tunneling through
hard dirt wrung free of moisture,
incapable of providing life …. just death.
Even the buds on the Red Squill,
close quickly after bloom,
leaving me to wonder … what next, September?
And past then … plant, will you disappear
for years and will I want you to return again?
To Annie Mckee 1926-2020. Hold yer horses, St. Pete, Annie’s on her way.