Wednesday, July 23, 2025

Charlie Brice

Satan’s Season


Flies dapple dog doo-doo, 

eggs fry on asphalt, 

heat shimmers off highways, 

the world’s out of focus, 

out of kilter, 

primetime for killers. 


Over last night’s ribs and fries

happy magots creep, love that

restaurant backdoor dumpster reek,

slippery sidewalk

watermelon slush, 

garbage can splatter—

nothing seems to matter.


Who else would have invented mosquitos?


Sure, there’s bikinied blonds, blue jays,

butterflies, and barbecue, but also

body odor, armpit stains,

relentless blue-sky blare, 

the absence of care.  


Long I wait 

for that first 

wilted leaf, 

smell of earth-

crunch beneath

my feet. That

first blast

of air, crisp

against my hair,

that sings

winter’s almost here.


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