The end of summer.
A prescient chill in the midday air,
A tight forehead and a skull thick like iron wool.
Laugh lines that don’t fade with passing hilarity.
There are no nuances in single digit white wine, nor fructose nor glucose for sun-drunk bees.
Plastic wool sliding over cold shoulders — an autumnal refrain. You aren’t going to give my umbrella back, are you?
A sweater, an umbrella. Both died as martyrs to lust, buried in a makeshift graveyard.