the month dies tonight and nobody will hold a funeral no flowers no card just the calendar turning over in its sleep
I count what I meant to do in you old habit keeping receipts for a thing that was never going to itemize
but August never asked to be a metaphor it got hot and then it got late and that was the whole life of it
outside the cicadas are still screaming like mid July loud and wrong and committed they don’t know the season is ending or they do and they don’t care
that’s the only stubborn I trust
tomorrow September arrives with no memory of this it will not ask what I did with August it just shows up cooler expecting nothing
I want to end like that no summary just quieter and done