Summertime

They’d say I’m too young to paint the pastoral scene
But that’s exactly where I would like His watering can to displace me
Found seeds sticking out from the corners of beaten lips;
Growing bones yearn for the dinner bell
And my veins, just perpendicular to that black-blue stream
Soundly boiling in a bag, the heat of summer swelling the insoles of my feet
Baking on hot grass, mud stacked in squares along the bank –
The shape of your bucked teeth
The heir apparent to some older brother’s fingers from across the street
And you can find me just sleeping in my rubber throne
I know another out back that could be your own
And what a mother you could be, excuse me, but often do I think
On those pleasures afforded to a militia employed in folds of the rarest pink
Those baby stars turning gently green; penciling your name high above the trees                                                                       
But don’t smile – agree
Turn your head, throw back your thinning hair, and laugh with me
Your neck, so white
1,000 degrees
We tremble and kiss away this dying heat.