August

Doors swing open on loose hinges.

Poverty’s a state of mind.

Cuddling like two gray pigeons,

Two lone shadows intertwined,

Searching in the eyes of August,

Down the emptied water-well,

While the wind, so dry and raucous,

Sweeps the body’s every cell.

Hot and humid, lustful dreams,--

Women wearing see-though gowns.

The temptations will not cease.

In the chest, the clock resounds.

Hands of time strike faster, harder,

Almost echoing the heart.

Autumn,-- questions disregarded,

Autumn,-- foliage in the yard...

Memory, lost in the sawdust,

Wanders aimlessly, perplexed.

There is only August, August

There is nothing coming next...