I

This morning, already hot.

Too hot for grass to grow.

But dandelions,

they’ll push their middle

fingers unstoppably up.

And the bills, too,

flip me off.

And the taxes,

the virus,

broken blinds,

old photos in boxes—

and hell, of all things,

sugar ants

queued at the cat food bowl.

All of these

screwing into

my fat gut

while I screw my ass

into a corner of the couch,

watching YouTube

and drinking Diet Coke.

        II

Seven PM in the 

Dairy Queen drive-through:

behind a Dodge,

behind a Chevy,

behind an old Toyota

minivan with brown,

wind-buffed paint

matting in the sunlight.

Thoughts of ice cream

spill out its windows,

with children shouting and

waving their hands

like two plus two

equals four yet again

and everybody

wins a prize.

The thing is old but clean,

probably paid for,

maybe a pirate ship

on its days off.

The tag reads BLT-032.

        III

Unbelievable.

I’ve been idling for a

cookie dough blizzard

for fifteen minutes,

but now need

a BLT on rye—

paired with a viognier,

which I’m guessing

Dairy Queen won’t serve.

Good viogniers

are hard to find anyway.

But if I do find one,

I’ll fix myself

a magnificent BLT

to eat while sitting

on my own shoulder,

unfurled by a

slow blonde pill,

and watching keystrokes

spill across a page.

Wouldn’t that be a life.

Gavin W Sisk

August 2020