Sun’s high in August, we picnic when it gets hot.
Sidewalks stuffed with strollers, squalling kids, we celebrate hot.
 
Form a snaking line. Build towers of hot dogs, chili, slaw.
Workers sweat in merlot smocks, heft trays steaming hot.
 
Mr. Green-Haired Clown mimes to toddlers; wags goofy shoes.
While waltzing with bubbles, his whiteface melts. It’s that hot.
 
The peace group and food co-op share shade, stack leaflets.
Friends in tie-dyed tees crowd in. Out there’s too hot.
 
Bluegrass beats jazz the crowd. Lonesome lyrics picked fast.
The combo rips through Pretty Polly, cloggers stop, feet hot.
 
A serenade for Margaret’s last day of summer, next, classes start.
Dry leaves rustle, the sun sets sooner. It won’t stay hot.  


© by Margaret Coombs.
Used with the author’s permission.