One day you wrote my name upon the strand

The petals pelt my face

As they detach themselves from grace 

It comes like this every year 

Humidity brings along a lack of care 

Peculiar how plants still die 

Long after the cold is set aside

Selfish salutary summer air 

Basking in the sun’s sweet lair  

The sidewalk’s very own Atlas

Holding the cement in place 

In the space between my teeth

A Burnt, bubbling mess

Evolving into rawhide flesh 

Wrinkles remain after smiles fade

All decadent, flaunting our summer’s best

Keats would not shut up about this season 

He credited it as his reason 

Yeats was infatuated by a Nazi

If there is poetic justice it’s lost on me

Writers do not eternalize 

They patronize

Vain man release your pride 

Allow the waves to chide

And wash us all away.