by Ron Wallace
Summer should sing like a thunderstorm
out behind the stadium with you,
my brown-eyed girl,
my sweet brown-eyed girl,
and darkness hide
far away from the long light of July.
This is not right
my smiling girl.
When soft brown eyes close
beneath blue skies,
the stones of a damaged universe
should not hold
in their patterned places.
They should scatter in all directions
like leaves in a howling wind
like voices in whispered confusion.
This is not right, my smiling girl
not right at all.