Last Summer

snapped
photos of dead birds
and sketched sad,
flying teeth with angel
wings and tiny halos;
she understood how fine
filters yield fine results
and noted the sifted powder.

Autumn knew her
when she was in high school,
a cheerleader with a secret
penchant for visual
art, developing, within
herself, a vague sense
of some greater hypocrisy.

Winter, a lonely drunk
and a cocked eyebrow,
flipped through her
portfolio and sipped tequila
and lemonade and danced
between her couch
and her record player, down
the hall, past the toilet,
and into her bed.

Spring rolled his bicycle
to the bus stop, propped
it against the trash can,
which bore a bright green
parrot laying across
its black, rod-iron arms.
He snapped a phone
camera picture, sent
Summer a text message
labeled: Bus stop.
Thirty-Eighth and Duval.

Summer pressed and turned
the cap off an orange
bottle, translucent, the next
thirty days of time-
released relief rattling
inside, lifeless lightning-
bugs stuffed in a jar
by a thoughtless boy
in a white jacket
who forgot to add
the breathing holes.