Photo: Monica Kass Rogers
Summer
Someone stole summer out from under
the place you hold most sacred.
Someone took your 93rd summer
as you slumber in the place
you once rode wild into July.
They stole your summer
the one that felt like a gift
as you biked toward sunset
so alive you didn’t hear, once,
when we called your name in the wind.
Someone took summer out from under
your biking shoes
they took your 93rd summer
the way war took your 18th
and pneumonia your 62nd
and all those other summers
of cracked sidewalks in Humboldt Park
your father’s candy store that swallowed
your youth, his colon cancer that took
your young manhood—
They took your 93rd summer,
the way mom’s death took your 73rd and my 37th—
my daughter’s first summer.
This one was taken suddenly
a carpet pulled from under
you—not while you slumbered
but as you turned a corner
onto Lake street
toward home, they knocked you
off and cracked your spine
as you stumble, now, toward autumn
and prepare for another summer.
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