"gods and goddesses in the summertime"

"gods and goddesses in the summertime"
written in a mountain town by jake kilroy.

with a mug of coffee and a book,
the star-spangled morning grits its teeth on a porch in the woods
and takes in the flavor of american promise.

it clicks its tongue,
profound and noisy like the building of a homestead,
and licks the salt of memory off its chapped lips,
just to whistle the tune of his darling mistress.

he spent a cool night's drive
swerving on the curvy mountain forest roads
with a high moon looming like a back door into the heavens,
but he knew it was just a night light left plugged in
and would one day set the satin sky aflame.

and it was all to speed demonic,
almost into the ravine or into the great sky wilderness itself,
so he, the barely gripping daylight sparkle plunge,
could fold back his long hair
and tuck his ears against his woman's stomach
to hear her atrium ribcage,
as even the most desolate of gods want to hear
songbirds, maybe lovebirds,
to forget their gambling problems and pandora snuff boxes.

this is as the most pristine of goddesses,
swathed in the glowing rapture of pictures and pages,
want to hear the pulp squish against bone;
their man's heart, their most sacred fruit,
their garden of eden patio furniture set.

so, when it's summer,
and no mortal has hopes of protection or advice,
the gods and goddesses disappear to their vacation homes,
slumping into mountain town cafes for omelets and cocoa,
because all they have back at their cabin is a holy book
and the power to have everything
while being so unholy bored with it all.