by Steve Brisendine
These are the between-days, gray above and green below.
Summer is still on the clock, but you can tell it’s already
planning some time off and then the usual move south.
Keep a little humidity in the air, remind the cicadas not to end
their set before the last song: it’s all stuff you can phone in.
Autumn always comes in a bit early, just to get some prep
work done: maybe sharpen the breeze a touch, turn down
the sun a little earlier every evening – but there’s no real
urgency in that, either. Mostly, they sit and talk baseball.
Summer usually makes fun of spring and its eternal habit
of believing
This is the year
for clubs that haven’t even sniffed October game-night
air since a year that started with 19.
You might have to eat a little crow next year,
fall says.
The boys are still one up in the division. Maybe
I’ll have a reason to keep an eye on them; Lord
knows it’s been a while.
They both nod and take a drink – lemonade for summer,
with a little something extra now that its time is almost up,
sweet cider
(Still a little early for me to be indulging)
for fall.
Somewhere, the first leaf turns.
I saw that,
summer says, but doesn’t try to change it back.
About the Author:
Steve Brisendine lives, works and remains unbeaten against The New York Times crossword in Mission, KS. He is the author of five collections of poetry, most recently full of old books and silence (Alien Buddha Press, 2024) and Behind the Wall Cloud of Sleep (Spartan Press, 2024). His work has appeared in Modern Haiku, I-70 Review, Flint Hills Review and other publications and compilations. He has no degrees, one tattoo and a deep and unironic fondness for strip-mall Chinese restaurants. In his spare time, he tries to make himself seem far more interesting than he actually is.