it was that summer.

that summer we were making love so much
the room smelled obscene.
a rich, loamy, tropical smell,
right in the middle of the urban jungle.

that summer when changing the towels daily
made no impact whatsoever.
when the washcloths were always too damp
to drop into the hamper
and all the incense in the world
couldn't save us.

maybe it's the plants,
i suggest one day,
resting against his arm,
trying to blame the withering arika palms
sitting neglected and unwatered
in the corner by the alabama steamer trunk.

i don't think so, he says.
i think it's you.

me, too, i say.
(thank god for forty!)


me, too.

it was that summer.