Twenty-Seven Past Two

Summer started out with packing

up and goodbyes,

yearbook signed with 'miss you's,

boxes in the car as we drive away,

escaping that little town

on that sunny day in June.

Six hours later, we're laying by a pool

forgetting all those car rides,

bowling alleys,

and days in the park.

July arrived with catching bullfrogs

and fireworks on the lake,

rowboats and birthday presents,

bachelorette parties and videos,

wedding days with raindrops before

and wild flowers

behind my ear and in my hair,

candles in the pool,

and the night ends

twenty-seven past two.

The morning light brings it all,

as realizations

chase away the dreams,

and red light, green light,

it won't stop there

before driving away

at three in the morning,

and then to that dreaded place,

come as you are,

and everything has left me behind,

no more California,

no more watching the waves roll in.

Moving in to one more home,

empty rooms

filled with boxes,

as we forget our promises

and that phone rings,

with news that brings tears,

bitter like salt,

but we made it with time to spare,

if only we didn't need solace

during just another day of summer.