It’s summer. It’s supposed to be hot, 
I offer this to fill the empty space, 
since no one else has yet taken up the silence,
one friend desperately ill and not making much sound
and the others rendered mute by it. 
We mostly stay indoors these pandemic days,
but I have this odd collective memory 
of our forebears wandering through forests
sleepless every night, alert to every danger,  
but too tired to do much about it?  

It’s trouble enough wearing out a path on the plush carpet 
night after night worrying all things beyond our control--
aging, sickness, friends dying. 
So much Dog Bites Man
which is not news, though I’ve been chased by wild beasts
out of my little sleep more times than I care to remember
and each time it feels brand new. 

I say to my old friends: it’s summer, why not party like we used to,
grain alcohol, Hawaiian Punch  and ice in a barrel--
we’ll meet at your place, Freddy, 
sit out back on a chaise and have some laughs,
tell stories of the past, the ones we know by heart
from having told them so long.

Then Freddy  reminds us again 
the days get shorter from here on out
past the solstice, and on to our expiration date—
it’s so fucking hot in his backyard--
though he’ll be wrapped in a blanket
and, seeing him this way, 
we’ll only wish we knew how to say
any of the things 
that are worth saying.