Summer Love

They always come back
on shy giraffe legs
loping, as sad as
September
tomatoes
passed over
rotting putrid
on the vine.
The Sun cares less,
climbs like a fire sloth
beyond the reach
of satellites,
lost saints,
space junk.
Love loves the afternoon,
remains hazy, lies waiting
in sultry shade.
Why rush, she snickers.
Beginnings are
sudden bandito fires
raging to Perfect endings
forgotten by dawn,
charred to cadaver
black.
When you're in the mood,
wait, She purrs,
Don’t waste the last dance
on me.
Saloon doors
swing open
when I say
they will