My extended gloved finger tip
barely slipped between Venus and Jupiter.
And the gloves came off
to bare finger the first frost
on the football dummies
left out in the trampled grass.
It’s the end of the summer as we knew it
and I’m okay with that.
But the middle-aged man’s
bare knees
weren’t knocking so loudly
on Mass St
that I could hear them
over his chattering teeth.
And the hot sauce
sat out on the tables
in the outdoor seating,
waiting at the Roost.
And somewhere over the river
the pigeons lined up
on the cables with care
and the nodding river was tucked
under a soft, gray blanket of mist.
If the sun comes up soon
we can perhaps pretend
a little longer,
but the squirrels in South Park
are preparing for the cold.
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