For the Last Summer

and war let him sing the songs he swore

he'd never forget. That summer

of week-long nights, blossom-dark,

fragrant with dew and a dust

as fine as milled flour, he dreamed.

And his dreams were all glory and light,

line drives that never fell, his friends

his friends forever, and war

let him sleep until noon and wake

with the scent of his girl around him,

remembering the night before-

how he sang of a loss he couldn't imagine,

of broken hearts he could almost believe.

That summer with a thousand Julys

the sun going down each afternoon was more

beautiful than the day before, the factory smoke

vermillion and rust in its slant, and the night-

hawks like needles stitching the darkness down.

Nothing smelled as sweet as the gasoline

he pumped, nothing arced so cleanly

as the shop-towels he tossed toward their baskets.

The world rode shotgun and reclined

on the seat of his car, lovely in the glow

from the dash-lights, soft and warm,

and he knew what it meant to adore. War

let him dawdle there, virtuoso of the radio,

king of the push buttons, and all that played

for him, in the only hours of his life he ever knew

as his own, was music, music, music.