Snowball fights in the dead of summer.

Mississippi mud pie, tumbleweeds and catskills
baby, I’ve got looks that can kill and these thighs,
baby these thighs…
My oh my, chocolate stains on the corners of your lips
sexy and sweet
in that rocking whicker chair.

That fresh linen gasoline smell
just after it rains
just after my father mows the lawn
just like his father did
that smell has stained my mind
forever.
Those swirly seed pod petals that fall and unwind,
like a death staring torpedo
gracefully twirling toward corruption.

You blaze me to the core….

And fried okra, no southern meal’s
complete without fried okra
soaked in batter and toasted with beer,
broiled until just
just crisp.
My grandmother stood in her long skirt and apron and her
white heels in front of the oven for what seemed
like days on end, alway baking
something. Her hips twisting back and
forth to the beat of the water dripping from the
faucet, plink, plink, plink….
Swish, swish, swish.
There was a snowball tree in the back yard
and sometimes the neighbors would gather
and pick the flower bushels and we’d
have snowball fights
in the dead of the summer. Back then,
summers didn’t stutter. They were smooth, and cool
and we ran through sprinklers with
no responsibility but being home for supper and
eating all that was on our plate.

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