summer turns hot and heavy
you just hum.
a slow buzz through the sticky days,
a sticky buzz through the slow nights.
the songs are right:
"there's no relief for the bleedin' heart".
so you let the minutes crawl by-
drunk and disenchanted-
in a procession of ants to a dumpster in the alley.
not bothering to keep track.
and why should it matter?
that it's half over
and you're not getting anything done.
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