The Jones of
Summer
the windows stand gaping,
mouths wide,
straining to catch an elusive breeze.
occasional dull currents twitch the curtain's hem, dead on arrival.
desultory birds pipe unhappily from brown drooping bushes.
un-dispersed diesel fumes drape the sagging sky in crepe.
this is not the lithe
and happy summer of your childhood.
it's the air-conditioned burden of July in middle age.
the joy's even been sucked out of the cottage get-away
by traffic, chores and drunk jet boaters
who keep you permanently anxious for the kids' safety.
it used to be simple--no
swimming until an hour after food.
now there's no swimming without you,
life preserver for the little ones, lifeguard for the rest.
there were no lawns, just sandy patches with stray grass.
paint peeled and the wood beneath was let turn grey.
now? it's cut the lawn and paint or stain each year.
after spending hours fuming in the car,
this hardly seems like reward—forget vacation.
I blame the Joneses—if
they'd kept quietly satisfied
nothing would have changed, except for growing older
© 2001 Peter Geoffrey
Hynes
