It has been a very long summer like I experienced a lifetime while I was waiting for milk to scald if lives could be shorter and more bitter without losing too much flavor. In this so-so yep-yep summer life few moments of clarity brushed my shoulder kind but busy strangers that would not look me in the eye when I asked them for 25 cents "I am out of change" they seem to mutter as if to apologize for being a poor memory "I am sorry you will not remember me as a better friend." This summer I was stranded and hot for many days with regret living in the oils of my skin I did not have the strength to run, I never sweat. Instead I walked briskly under the vast cypress trees stitched onto the side of the brook where I used to go many years ago to be by myself but now visit so I can remember what it is like to have convictions. I wonder, of my memories what is dream and what is reality? I recall several weeks ago saying goodbye to an old friend leaving for university "this summer is almost over" she laughed before getting in her car and driving away. I do not know what good poetry is but hearing her I suddenly became ill with desire to be inside myself and to be still as it is with the emptiness of things. This American Summer it was long expired as time flew from beneath me while all I could do was sit there with my memories and want.