A Midsummer’s Saturday

Ridiculous to be wearing shorts

Yet covering my legs when stretched

Upon the bed. The cats, snuggled

Atop the swaddled mound, disagree;

The afghan is the only reason

They are here—well, that and the legs

Beneath, whose slippery flesh they

Are shielded from by a summer-thin

Layer of cotton with god knows what

Synthetics mixed in and patterned

With rows of penguins alternately

Facing one another as if to chat and

Standing back-to-back as if to pout

At being excluded from the conversation

Carrying on just beyond their shoulders.

I am pouting a little myself at Saturday

Inside, but we have reached the stupid

Part of summer when opening the backdoor

Is opening an oven—and baked me is not

A tempting dish. Better a bit chill beneath

Bickering penguins than boiling like a

Birdseye dinner in my own bag of skin.

So I will make the most of this Saturday

As frozen inside by one hundred degrees

As by one hundred inches of snow

And join the cats, masters of the art,

In a midsummer’s afternoon nap.

7/13/2024