Yard Sale of Thoughts

Dear July,
How’s that blue margarita sky?
Tell me that the cicadas fly, back home
the virus’ leash came off and
we’re finally free to roam.

Tell me fireworks burst that night;
freedom, a sweaty hug and a sip of your sight.

Dear July,
Tell me you haven’t fired the pool guy.
That the beach house has an open door,
and that the beach towels lay together in sand,
the ocean matching me in a noonday snore.

Tell me fireworks burst that night;
freedom, a sweaty hug and sip of your sight.

Dear July,
Tell me the smiles and limbs emerge from cloth,
that the campground river sounds with steel guitar,
and a sweaty slip-and-slide gives us a ride to
a dancing sway among strangers at the local bar.

Tell me fireworks burst that night;
freedom, a sweaty hug and a sip of your sight.
Tell me truth doesn’t fail, that we’re getting this right.
That after this darkness, there’s still rays of light.