by Camilla Jean Welsch

Cats and crows
and a slight drizzle of rain,
driving out into the countryside,
when it’s a soft 80,
and flowers are issuing forth from pots on porches.

My dog will ride
in the back,
in a tunnel of wind,
as we go a fast 50
over the smooth, winding road.

I look for the produce stand.
Which house is it again? There is no sign.
Oh, but it’s only June,
I remember,
having been in the city too long.

Then I dream of corn and watermelons to come,
and my mind says to me:
“you can at least get frozen custard in a cone,”
served up by girls with ponytails,
who are otherwise with their ponies
in the summertime.

Yes, we can at least stop for that — ice cream.
My dog will quickly take off the topmost part, if I let him,
his eyes wide and innocent all the while,
and of course he always gets the last bite.
Like, how could he not?

It is summertime.

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