The Youth of July

The Youth of July

by Isaac Timm

Girl of fifteen hangs out

the window, slender arm

waving like a moth

at a friend passing or past.

her escort a phantom young

man from the nose down, eyes

lost to the glare.

The street flows with the

youth of July, some to

eddy into parking lots, pieces

of green yard, spread on

blankets, piled on tailgates.

Laughter, like bells over bass

caught in small moments between

the passing of cars, a cavalcade

of tanned elbows and flashing

faces under a halo of bangs.

Pretty smiling girls to be lost

then discovered. Passing

and turning, crossing in and out

of lanes.

Sex rumbles in the heart like

an engine, a slow present

backbeat happening below sheltering

cottonwoods, under lap throws,

flush young faces, fumbling

hands, groping  as if ecstasy

can be lost, to flow endlessly

to the east out of town, with

honking traffic and now headlights.

Evening casts its self out. Beer

cans come out of hiding. From

under daddy’s gun rack, from

behind mama’s quilt, down

on the floor board. And they drink

until midnight, until dispersed

by unseen hands. Replaced by

empty  street, a single slow

squad car, neon that winks

“closed”. But some where is

a rumble under the street lamps,

the promise of another Friday night.