The Cicada

Summer expects something—
the lawn needs mowing,
the fence painted,
parades.

Knee to chin against the wall,
I watch the old man run past my window,
seven a.m., like always.
My neighbor backs out at 7:15.
Fuckers.

It is better to stay silent when summer passes,
to wait—
until the last cicada clicks off.

The fields can go to seed for all I care.
I wait for cold winter winds
to shake the jealousy.

I wait for winter,
when everyone stays inside,
the old man stops running,
and no one sees I never left.

It is better to bury sadness beneath winter.

—Augustus Rivers