Junebug

Summer’s on the porch again

smoking a cigarette, her barefoot legs

slung over the chair.

Her drink needs a refresher; it always does.

You’re nothing special, she has to sit

somewhere, & casualness  

is her only mode; the whiff of ozone

on her skin proof of her indifference.

A bead of sweat slips down

the ice tea pitcher -- an inhalation before

speech -- an invitation

to slip into the puddle or to fly --

-- to ride -- choose which hand --

lightning or rainbow,