POCKET SHRINK

Blaze

The house muffled in heat
the persistent fly buzzing
behind limp drapes
the flat, sticky afternoons.
Slow and dull as a month of Sundays
she cannot abide August.

She shifts in her chair
as she recalls a different August
days stuffed with sunshine and freedom.
She would give a lot
maybe her life
to get up and run round the block
so fast it would feel like flying.

But dead
she would miss autumn
when she can wear sweaters
sit outside and breathe cool air.
Easy to give your life away on a difficult day.
She sits taller, spits out an annoying seed.
Having outlived beauty,brains and money
she damn well won't die in August.

Bridget Harwell