The Patio in August

Suspense in the sling
hung with dark ropes
behind boundary lines
in a place I thought I knew.

Sun hot in blue sky,
sudden gust crinkles sparkling streamers,
reflective colors jittering.

Ropes a-creak... a-creak... a-creak...
sling sways, I am airborne as
that plane droning overhead,
droning on, over my head.

Angry voices beyond the line--
what engine drives these bitter feuds
wafting on air with acrid petroleum fumes,
precursors of flame and ash and burnt flesh?

Leave your lipstick missiles at home.
Whose face needs a bloody gash?
Remember when your lips were safe with mother's milk.

A hot wind blows up, disturbs
muslin sheets hung up on thin lines.
Egyptian cotton towels snap.