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Nothing Doing
by Barbara Crooker
It’s late summer, and I’m bored
with the ten thousand shades of green,
the humidity that’s turned the air
into soup, the sun’s broiler
stuck on high . . . . The same-
ness of the days, the stickiness
of the nights. There are goldfinches
bobbing on the sunflowers; ho-hum,
ho-hum. Nothing is bubbling
up from the tropics, no trouble
is brewing in the Gulf. Two hawks
hang around the clouds in lazy circles;
they might be stitching shrouds
or embroidering lazy daisies; c’est
tout la même chose . . . . Mailboxes
line up like school children,
waving their little red hands. Paper
wasps build nests in the eaves.
I’m sitting here watching ice
cubes melt in a glass of cold tea.
I think it may take
forever. |
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