You remember July like
you’ve lived it
for ten thousand years.
Since before the buffalo
roamed the Great Plains.
Since before the ice bridge.
Remember July 1973 when
you discovered Truman Capote.
In Cold Blood.
You: reading
and tearing off the pages
while parked in your 1967 Ford
three quarter ton truck.
Ten miles outside of Topeka.
Broke. Nowhere to go.
Capote: The Best damned writer of the 20th century.
How many miles to Holcomb, Kansas?
Heat wave full on – fuck heat,
and barking dogs.
Remember grain sorghum and
Oat straw.
Twisters.
And fear of lightning,
And 45 caliber guns.
In July, it’s all better
after dark.
Fireworks and snakes,
and all the things that
pile up on the front lawn.
Sparklers and trash.
Locals moving on to jobs out west.
Sleazy salesmen selling properties
on the lake.
Pontoon boats fishing gear.
First things first.
You should
have hitchhiked across the USA
and written a book.
Too few days, are never enough
for the old dogs,
so enjoy the ride to the
beach, enjoy your
life to the end but do not
confront my July