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Dog Days 

In the slow groaning passage of summer,

the only thing worse than being in the dirt

was sitting and watching your yard

sizzle,

vinyl folding chairs

branding your thighs,

jars of watered-down lemonade

sweating puddles on the porch rail

my sister and I are mid-glory:

two months

in wild rebellion of our parents' wishes.

we'd skipped auditions for theatre camp

to walk next door

and watch an endless succession of kickflips.

We vowed to dive headfirst

into our hard-earned laziness.

now,

though we would never voice it,

we were neck-deep in regret:

we would have rioted for anything.

would have taken up amateur picket signs

and stormed public offices,

if anything had been coarse enough to get under our pinked skin.

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