I Love Summer: An Ode of Sorts

I love summer

how the ants know it’s coming
before the rest of us realize,
how they announce its arrival in a
parade across my kitchen counter,
their appreciation of the small morsels of sugar
I’ve misplaced, the renegade crumbs

how the mosquitos are consistent
in the hum-hum-sting of their assault
at the backs of my arms, my legs, my scalp
and at the sweet tender skin of my ankles,
how assertively their bites manifest
as persistently-itchy welts
long after the union of
proboscis and skin

I love the sharp pungent aroma of bug spray
its perfumed plumes of offense
that linger on clothing and linens,
its placebo effect that lulls one into thinking
a stroll in the grass or evening walk
is not the suicidal effort it inevitably becomes
how calamine, all these years later, still has little effect

I love how the sun is brighter and hotter now,
how it sizzles in the sky and scares off cloud cover,
how sun begets sweat that trickles down my neck
and back and armpits and the crooks of my knees
so that everything is damp and humid and sticky
including my sheets at night, and the pillows, too
no matter how often I wake and flip them to the cool side,
no matter the window unit chugging along
the fan blowing luke-warm air and irony

how humidity hangs in the air,
keeps everything summer moist
swells up my fingers, makes mock raisins
of my toes in their constricting summer sandals
that bind and dig-in, leave criss-cross marks
like tattoos that say Summer Was Here

I love the incessant noise of lawn mowers
the ARRRRRR ARRRRR ARRRRR beat of blades
the tease as they fade around the corner
but return for another stanza
often accompanied by the
RRRRRRA-ZZZ-ZZZ RRRRRRA-ZZZ-ZZZ
of the weed whacker

Oh…all of those summer noises!
the startling shock of motorcycle manhood as it revs its engine
just as it passes my open window,
the cigarette boat in the harbor insisting no it
is bigger and better than any motorbike
the backing-up beep of the landscape van,
the beat box boom box bass of radios blasting music nobody likes,
the violent scream of the chain saw against even more trees,
the fireworks erupting to celebrate their own percussive noises
in an ongoing summer competition of what the fuck can be louder than this?

I love the busy-ness of summer:
the ants and mosquitos mere poster children
for the weeds, the outside chores,
and the inside chores,
the long and sprawling list of Things to Do
and Places to Be and just how many
carnivals, fairs, markets, and outdoor sweaty buggy get togethers
can one fit into a two-day weekend that requires
hours of slogging through touristy traffic
crawling along at 20 sweaty, noisy miles an hour

Perhaps, though, what I love most about summer
is that tortuous steamy day in August,
as heat forms in waves off the macadam
and gossip spreads of eggs frying and Lucifer rising,
when the air conditioner coughs its last breaths
of what passes at that point for “Cool”
when you look, then, to the heavens
to beseech god up above to make it stop
and you see what appears to be trees aflame…
and know, intuitively, that soon it will end
graciously and gloriously end.