Last Call of Summer

She came as she had before

In suburban plaid and canvas mitts

Tentative as meadow geese

Necks pointing south.

Her hands extend horizontal to the land

The way a boxer might drop his gloves

Almost to the point of surrender

To catch a breath between rounds.

Her hair is charcoal gray and falling

To shoulders. At this juncture

No harm done. I have a choice

Either to stay on the clock

And accept the inevitable colorization

Of fall, my declining powers

And that persistent odor of musk

Stationed under my nose like a sword

Or follow the primary image backwards

Into fire. As prescribed she is young

Of heart with requisite narrow waist,

A feint slipping into hour-glass form.

I will count on my fingers until intimate

Talk turns to rabid domesticity

And late fall lettuce shards

Left in ruts along a garden ridge.

A scruff of lemon in a glass is a hint

Of one last gin and tonic call

And that song even my father

Heard: Time gentlemen time.