Now, we're going to switch to summer.
You can decide whether it's last summer or the coming summer,
whichever makes you feel better.
Oh, there's a mathematical problem
when you talk about summers or seasons, which
is the title of the poem, "Three Summers Mark Only Two Years."
"No wonder time is so mistaken.
Three summers, like any other three summers,
aren't they long and dayful with traintrips
to the sea edge and free legs?
Why do we only get two years in exchange for three summers?
A full year stolen by mosquitoes.
Like a club sandwich, we need an extra summer
to separate year of bacon from year of turkey.
Like a lot of hard work taxed a full third.
I'll gladly suffer in a stolen year,
make it a year of sweaty nights alone
in a cube and days in a cubicle, time spent to buy time.
I'll take a year of that.
Just give it back to me."