That Night in July


there was a night that summer so hot the wind
refused to blow in and humidity
pooled without mercy everywhere, sticking
to our skin like sin to our permanent
record and other such fearful fables  .  .  .
she and I found ourselves down by the pool,
but not a soul was swimming, we were drunk
only slightly, and her tongue on mine was
more cloying than the taste of cheap whiskey
drunk in good company, but then she pulled
away to sing, and her voice cooled the night
like nothing else might; I jumped into the pool,
inviting her in, and we sung every
song we knew until the cops came to break us up.

David M Pitchford
2 Nov 2011

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