The End of August

The End of August

In the morning

even the sun is a runny red yoke
reluctant to rise above the horizon

its tired rays bathe the street in sepia and melancholy

Your lush green lawn of May

is now a patchwork of dead spots and desiccated wisps

like the whiskers on an ancient holy man

A scattering of scorched brown leaves

-- the ones that weren’t strong enough to make it until October --

lie in the backyard like a school of beached Starfish

In town the streets are empty

public places without any public

as if its part of some government experiment

vaporizing all signs of life

except the white noise of the cicadas

Or maybe everyone has gone
to the beach to swim and sleep

trying to forget the end of summer.