Flee from the kitchen, live on the porch;
August is glowing hot as a torch.
Cover yourself with rags or with strips,
Drink from a bucket, smacking your lips.
Dream of crisp apples, cinnamon toast,
A knife too dull to carve Sunday’s roast.
As the Earth turns and takes you along,
Make up a ditty, sing a new song!
Poem © 2020 by Magical Mystical Teacher
More The Whirligig #280
More Writers’ Pantry #34 at Poets and Storytellers United