as we slowly broach the month of june,
i quaff the pollen drifting on the air.
i won’t walk home alone: a whistled tune,
of how spring will linger on my curly hair
when summer slides lately into place,
accompanies me as i bray and bellow.
inhibition gives way with little haste,
i ask a favor of one offended fellow
who often parrots old words by mistake
stapled to my back when i’m at work.
a public kiss at midnight broke my break,
fifteen minutes more i’d longed to shirk…
so the purple laugh of solitude grows old.
i think i’ll swap the green for more red gold.