Big Friendly Summer

by Seth Copeland

Coughing through Buckdancer’s Choice,
unable to sustain any life through Dickey’s pseudocontent,
I walk the grounds, Big Friendly summer like
so many grimed hands, hades
in Minoa, all heavy & cursed.
Everything on these three blocks leans a way.

The children always claiming the pool are either
latchkey or feral, speak mostly in high round vowels.
I meet one stray swimmer on the
sidewalk, shows me three small wicker baskets
says: “I’m helping my mom move. Do you know what
these are?’ Something that can’t hold anything.

Somebody clanking under his truck shouts Puta madre,
keeps clanking. The air smells of Raid.
Dusky moon waxes gibbous, a little boy
peeking in at his mating parents.
I dread tonight, squirrels skittering in
the bedroom ceiling, the pipes trying to throat-sing.