Make-Up #1

I believe I owe you 4 poems for flaking out at the end of National Poetry Month. Here's one:

July

A distant fire engine siren,

drawling lazily,

echoes the carpenter bees

hovering, droning

by back yard pools

waiting for rare, languid splashes

from sticky, popcicle-painted kids.

Breathless, oppressive air binds,

blinding, unbending,

thick and wet and hot

like a bathroom

after a long shower.

Even a long rain wouldn't change this,

only leaving more steam

and sulphur-colored heat

in its wake.