For us, break the tablets Levi.
These profligate days
and criminal nights run riot.
I want the tight juicy thighs
that don’t break.
I want the decadent dog
to lay there and wait.
Summer is a spoiled rotten Christmas.
Humid as beer breath,
Summer puts his equatorial arm around my shoulders.
Wearing a slick, grassy pompadour,
he cajoles and jollies and is a grueler that all love.
A grove of doves, like you Tata-Lucia,
white wings curving,
that is all the hope in my world.
The grape of doves and proper riches.
The Hero says,
“those who live only for pleasure are dead.” *
But who could stand to live for anything else?
And Tacita-Lucia, my wages will be coming in.
Now let’s get to my house,
nothing is waiting for us here.