Suburbian Summers

I make a return home,
able to take my time.
My eyes enjoy much.

The old-fashioned street lamps
made for the night, thin
with their green-gray dresses.

The fireflies fashion their own
journey through the quiet sky.
I deftly move slowly, tired.

I am almost home. Something
has stopped my feet, and I
look up at a porch deck.

The smell of a grill, a role of
the summer. The thin smell tells
of the slow burn of preparation.

But it is hot, sweat runs trails down
my neck. Gnats and mosquitoes
encircle my feet and fat chin.

The slow feel summer comes when
I wish for a moment in time. But
sometimes I want to be inside.

My legs quicken. In a few minutes
I will eat change, eat dinner, and
a weekly TV show awaits at 8.