Summer Days (a poem)

Summertime heat swelters, sweat trickles

down your face – wash those sticky hands from

the melting ice cream.

Grab that garden hose, there it is,

the one fillin’ the pool where the kids waddle

and soak in the sun while the Rastaman

sings from tiny speakers.

There ain’t nothin’ like summer days –

even the virus can’t stop us from cookin’

burgers and gatherin’ on red-hot afternoons.

(Photo by Raphaël Biscaldi on Unsplash)