Every major city seems to have a botanical greenhouse where tropical conditions have been created to foster the growth of orchids, bromeliads, and such—or “July” as a resident of the American South might call it. I left just past noon today for a 25-minute sojourn around the neighborhood. When I returned, our weather gauge reported a temperature of 81.1°F and a relative humidity of 88.8% (now registering an even 89.0% 30 minutes later). Lighting was poor: completely overcast, the sun approaching its zenith. That’s okay. My poetry attempts have been poor today, also. This is my second try, the first being filed in the “maybe-it-can-be-saved” bin. This really isn’t poetry, more poetic prose, artfully arranged—unless it’s true what a friend said, that poetry is what I say it is!
Every Southerner learns gradual
acceptance of sweat, wears loose
garments, overlooks each other's
spreading stains. "Only mad dogs"
indeed. Why walk now? Surely
my Fitbit will multiply steps
taken in such weather?
Escaping my climate-
controlled cocoon,
black-eyed susans cry
welcome. They're sprinkled
beside rattlesnake master,
goldenrod, butterfly
weed. Abiding our warmth,
humidity humbly, they
suggest I follow their lead.
Minutes later brings one
patriotically-colored
whirligig, neglected,
spinning madly with each
new breath of hot air,
much like my country
does these days. Inured
to these new great divides,
I just see [whirligig;
patriotic] as I pass.
One neighbor's mailbox
decoration swings madly
with each puff of air. Its
caretaker keeps it small:
Chinese fringe flower
usually towers twenty feet.
Where once I wandered scrub
woods (leftover nature long
subdued), newer years brought
townhouses, all units clad
in ubiquitous white,
(accented with charcoal trim!)
Townhouses get
young magnolias,
crafted ever-so-
perfectly by your
local nursery, while
everyone else
nurtures what
such abnormal
specimens become.
Headed homeward I give
friend Crow midday greetings,
reflect upon our tree-bound need
for vegetables in front
(sunlight dictates placement),
admire still-red maple leaves,
register my soaked T-shirt:
its limit of three-quarters mile,
exceeded by my four.
all the voices in my head 