This is a poem I wrote in the early fall
after having been away from the summer,
coming back to a different kind of work than lying on the beach
and writing poetry.
It's called "Waking at the End of Summer."
"In this heat, the vacation come and gone,
the body shrinks to fit the lives we lead.
Small hopes float to Earth to sleep.
We put up with office jokes and solemn words
for brief summers of respite.
A typist's heart skips a beat.
She drowsed and heard the water fall for hours.
Our lives, if they are common, run on like string
from a miser's enormous hoard, played out parsimoniously,
as the seasons pass.
The joke is on us for being so convivial.
We groan and weep and knuckle out of bed
to greet our fellows because to sleep is to dream.
And we've had enough of that."