V is for Verano

Venetian blinds flutter in the
late afternoon breeze that
pushes collected heat into narrow corners as
a gray spider with long delicate legs
slowly scales its flimsy net
where a trapped fly buzzes with frantic resignation.
Birds peacefully nest, songs stilled,
waiting for dusk and
the reappearance of delectable leggy creatures
who come out to eat and be eaten.
Scents of crushed petals
and new mown hay
drift like motes as they
settle like perspiration
on the upper lip of
the gentle hair of a very blond fellow.
Somewhere down the dusty hallway
the Evening News prattles about high temperatures,
traffic,
and wars on foreign shores.
A ceiling fan clicks
clicks
clicks
against a pull chain with a faded ribbon that
twists and dances to the draft from above.
Cicadas, hidden in rushes and trees,
murmur and hum,
eager for relieving rain,
then go suddenly quiet again.
Outside a car door closes with a thud
but no one turns or cares to know
who else might protest the heat.
A screen-door groans on rusty hinges,
and the crack of a divided watermelon
is heard above the drone of a
weary refrigerator motor.
Bare feet pad on a cracked linoleum floor,
seeking the summer tonic of fresh, ripe fruit
and Gino lights the barbeque with a whoosh.