BY NIX LYNCH
We sat on the veranda steps in almost-silence.
Whitewashed wood slowly turning deep amber,
tinted dark by the late afternoon.
We moved less than we spoke,
the sweltering concrete
a step away from our feet.
We ate persimmons that day,
you and I.
Our chins flecked with sticky-cool juice,
We smiled at the occasional passerby
and the tawny-haired girl from across the street.
Little children ran through the sprinklers
on their parents’ sunburned lawn.
Their shorts in yellow and vermilion,
breaking brilliant the dimming light
of an inflamed setting sun.