Late In August
If only summer would end,
our fans gasping and windows open,
The dog’s constant panting.
The garden closing in on itself,
yellowed and shrinking
like plastic in fire.
Sweaty, I feel to the touch
like my skin is inside out.
You are always in the tub.
Nights, we lie down in the heat,
not touching, uncovered.
We talk, of course, about the weather.
We make our wishes for thunderstorms,
plan our dreams around cool mountains.
We think of when it will be good
to warm to each other’s touch.
By Randy Phillis