| It was the summer after our graduation, a long summer it was to be. The years of higher learning compressed into only the fun memories behind us, and ahead stretched an uncertain lifetime. Our degrees were tucked away in a drawer, protected. We were on the floor making love, slowly, leisurely, time in a thick pool beside us. Sweet love is like the dream of a child, reaching for the heavens with eyes closed. There were parties and road trips, nightclubs and concerts, stretching our legs and entwining out tongues. A hot summer it was to be. The harvest of ripe graduates became a hungry school of fish exhausting the food chain. There were no jobs in our chosen professions; should have applied in our junior year. Your apartment had no A/C, just a fan pointed at the bed on the floor. Our degrees were in the drawer, restless. We were on the floor, naked and sweating, screwing our frustrations into and out of one another. Sex is hot and sticky like the air that crushed us then. Iced tea and dollar movies, happy hour on the charge cards; hope came easier in the cool of the night. A cruel summer it was to be. By the time we got there the jackals had cracked open the bones and sucked out the marrow. There were no professional jobs to be had; should have majored in business, shouldn't have taken out all those loans. Our degrees were in the drawer, useless. We were on the floor, fucking like dogs, mean, mad, howling at the moon we can never touch. I see why there are so many poor fools in the world -- it's because fucking is free like bad TV. A dried-out summer it was to be. The scorching winds blew the dust about, covering the tracks of the herds that had moved on without us. There were no jobs to be had, not even enough temps to go around, too many brows dripping in the warehouses already. Our degrees were in a drawer, forgotten. We were on the floor, our backs to each other. Move over, it's too damn hot in here for your ass to be touching mine. Desire, like hope, leaves an ugly stain when it is gone. We both needed fresh air, miles of it. |
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| Poemission |
| Post-Graduate Study |