You can smell the gin from
the other side of the street.
The sway and swagger of people,
indecisive and mischievous,
match the fragrance well.
As the misaligned, misinformed pilgrims
dance on one another’s graves,
they smile on without purpose, boasting
of ancient cultures and assuming
the veil of impermanence.
A feeling much like that
of a fruit-fly or bag of trash,
sinks into skins, marinating souls and
adding to Summer’s spice,
which burns the tongues and all organs.
The disposable nature created during
the sweaty run of the vernal months
washes away hope once felt during
the Spring, previously deadened by
Winter, with unrequited attentions.
On beaches and in booths and with
stony silences, the mingling of
breaths and intentions, with spirits and
Spirit, a fragile bubble of cheer,
leave the season in a fit.
Smelling the many hopes dashed and
left to drain out, those swaggering
wonder if there’s any room for
love still, or if the gin smell has burned
all the bridges of expectation.