• This time,
    summer follows fall.

    The drought was a metaphor,
    an overlong Lent: they
    rationed water while I rationalized,
    shut off their hydrants and
    shuttered their eyes.
    Their lawns withered,
    their children whined,
    and the sweat of their sustained survival
    clotted the city until even the sky
    tarnished. Sere serendipity
    swept the successful to the suburbs;
    two hours by car
    two days by wheelchair.
    With but a wee while of waiting,
    their reservoirs reduced, and
    they could no longer water their lawns.
    All it took was time.

    It is the cusp of September, and the wind is right.
    I brought matches; my birthday's tomorrow
    but I think
    I'll celebrate
    today.