The Longest Summer

You were broken long before you decided to take a break.
Philly disappeared from the rear view mirror, and
You felt the sun scorching your nose 
Through the passenger-side window–
Traveling south, just in time for summer.

You become convinced that one could fry an egg 
On a Virginia sidewalk in July,
Even at breakfast time. 
Hell, maybe even at night.
Under the cover of a starless witching hour sky,
The Sun never truly left us.
He would sneak away each evening,
Leaving us alone with his ever present, oppressive heat.

You ran into the arms of a lakeside town in Western 
Michigan
Like a child tattle-telling an unforgiving solar bully.
Even outside of the Sun’s reach,
The memory of his heat haunted you throughout the winter.
You would not meet him outside,
Not for anything.

That winter was one of emptiness.
Empty hearts, empty heads, empty bars in empty towns.
At 10:30, you limp to the place on the corner
For a bite to eat before the kitchen closes.
The bartender pities you. 
You ask for water, but she’ll only bring you whiskey.
You leave even thirstier than when you walked in.

All the while, you fear the Sun.
You await his return when the snow all melts,
Even though you know he’ll be nicer to you in Michigan
Than he ever was in Virginia.
You don’t care. 
You begin sweating just thinking about it.

As you begin to fear losing all hope, 
You muster the courage to buy an electric fan.
You carry it with you and create a bit of cool everywhere.
You begin to forget about the Sun and its many transgressions,
Opting instead to find a place on the wall to plug in your fan.

Now, the breeze blows and the birds make cheery melodies, chanting
“Chirraputty, chirraputty!”
“Cheer up, buddy! Cheer up, buddy!”
You finally oblige to their request
And wipe the ancient beads of sweat from your face.
You rinse your face in the sink and no longer see a boy in the mirror.
You stare at the familiar stranger and sigh:
“Okay. Time to go back to school.”