Saturday, June 21, 2014

B, L and T

Summer drives a faded red pick-up truck with a quilt in the back for impromptu picnics. It stops at roadside farm stands, drive-in movies and soft-serve ice cream joints where the line of customers spills into a parking lot illuminated by the glow of a neon sign. Summer carries a straw bag and a bandana and a library card, wears cotton shifts and cork sandals, has toes painted coral. Summer stays cool by ducking into a museum to catch the new exhibit and porch sitting in front of an oscillating fan. Summer is a paper bag full of peaches, summer is pie. It is fireflies and sparklers and starry nights, beach umbrellas in popsicle colors, a home run at the bottom of the ninth. If summer had initials, they would be B, L and T.

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