April Fox

I'm almost desperate for summer.

I can feel the heat creeping along my spine like it did when I was a kid
tumbling along the banks of the Caloosahatchee River
flip-flop sandals sliding sideways off my heels, hand-me-down tee shirt stretched out a little in the neck
cutoff jean shorts frayed, tickling my knees 
pockets full of broken shells and what might have been a piece of pine needle
or a broken lizard's tail

We climbed and chased and nipped at each other like puppies

Threw coconuts at the jagged rocks sitting angry on the bank below

We pretended we were stranded, marooned on a desert island
palm trunks were the walls of sturdy shelters
and we'd live off the fish we caught

till the sun grew deep and heavy and the night grew restless, waiting its turn to come in
and the voices of our parents called us, rough and slurred
to stick closer to the house, now,
come and get a hot dog
where's my beer?
Here's that Foghat album
turn it up.

We fell asleep, cheeks pressed to rough rattan and canvas
woke halfway through the ride home
to the hush of conversation and the headlight-softened asphalt

In the morning we were tangled in our old familiar sheets, still gritty in between our toes
and scented with the memory of dinner off the grill

slipped back into summer, striped and wrinkled for the season
felt the grass between our toes outside
and the sunlight crawling up our spines
like snakes.