The summertime
british; driving
by in convertibles,
mother & daughter
blowing hair a
stereo in laugh

tinkering on high
streets walking
dogs, shining like;
unmasked The girls
baring legs that wear
bruises—gnatbites
constellated between unshakeable
tattoos & cellulite

Crammed boyfriends
swagger topless with
sold energy drinks
proud foreign ink
pouched upon them aloud

(still walking chained
dogs)
there old women
sit on benches,
secondhand inhaling
smoke No one attractive

No one ready for death
Is just the peaceful happy
hallelujah praise that
summer is bound to
pavements & market stalls

Let loose pub gardens
for screaming at sports
screens This simple race

unashamed

left only to bask in the
when-it-comes sun
until then burping in
shine

All day in the sun for
Monday morning reds
Because Monday morning
puts us to bed