August: Last Day But One

The Fiery Skippers played with bees

Amid the mint in our back yard.

The sun was hot, there was a breeze

And Brigitte cooked us some Swiss chard—

Those huge green leaves, red narrow veins.

As off I went to grab my keys,

I heard the name John Maynard Keynes

And then a bit about Chinese

Atrocities against free trade.

Was haircut bound, two miles away,

You know, the scissors and the blade,

Returning I bought stovetop spray

From a one-line shopping slip

And made a lib’ry visit too

To optimize the outbound trip.

That might save gas; good thing to do.

But then, as later it turned out,

When Grosse Pointe Schools let their phone ring

And therefore put us in some doubt

When aerobic swimming would begin

Come Fall, indeed next week,

The keys had to be grabbed again

To storm the school and there to speak

Directly to the guardian—

Who sat, massive, behind a screen

Behind him a black telephone

Shiny, untouched, indeed pristine,

But one he did not deign to own.

Long story short, all was still well.

I paid a hundred, signed her up.

Then back to our Grosse Pointe hotel

To tell my mate, to sip a cup,

Well-iced—before a hot walk came,

And later dinner on spaghetti.

Next to Pier Park where my own dame

Attended her last Summer swimmy.

Then came evening and its doings,

The swim-shoes in the sink to soak.

Check the e-mail, to-ing, fro-ing.

The Tigers lost, Mitt Romney spoke.