strawberry clots

May marmalade spilling congealed strawberry clots

recklessly over now late-summer Sun toasted linoleum

with a copper taste, no, not candied,

and an odor of old, unkept cast iron.

Unbearable, this stench- this death;

untraditional, as not an assault on flesh,

rather reluctant theft of budding breath.

 

Outside, sunset fades to dusk uncertain, yet, without option-

The blood orange Sky quietly encouraging, “one inch more”.

Though, there are miles, no, not just inches,

to bring long, arid July days to their ending,

and though they pass within mere moments,

fast as current breaths sharply ventilating,

this instant is an endless, insufferable summer.

 

Pleated on the kitchen floor, a host, no company to cradle,

and scarlet shambles from anticipated guest who never came

despite intent, and now, no, never will.

PoetryEmily Pickerd