August

Her hips
expose limits.
Ragweed pollen on red
alert. Ambrosia not her drug
of choice.

All my
old addictions
wave to me as I go
round on a hand-painted steed. No
brass ring.

The trees
scream at her as
she turns to scream louder
at the written words she cannot
escape.

To keep
us from catching
anything, they are closed
for the season. Memories turn
to rust.

I use
the third person
to distance ourselves from
the Wurlitzer organ as it
plays on.

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