Triple Digits

Beaded condensation

camouflages

the bubbles

trapped along the lip

of

an aqua, blue-green glass,

wide-mouth,

Atlas Mason jar,

chilled

with crackling ice cubes,

suspended

in a lake

of sugar-sweet sun tea,

melting, slowly,

like liquid gold

on the hot cement

of

afternoon’s waterfront walkway,

(an estuary

of

beaded condensation

collecting

along the aqua,

blue-green glass rim

of the earth’s atlas

at eventide).

Hour hands

pull at eve’s prise

&

the galaxy’s gold token

drops into

Summer’s slot machine.

Warm westerly winds wisp

Cool Whip cream clouds,

as they are spun

against the bowl

of the Helios-hued horizon

like airy webs of

crystallin-cotton cane sugar.

The first reel begins to slow

as cherry-red channels

are chiseled

throughout

the once white ribbons

in the window

of summer’s frame.

Tangerine tints

trace

the tattered edges

of the skyline

as the second reel twirls,

tethered

within dusk’s brilliant borders.

Day is lost

as the final casement

yields

a sunny-yellow lemon

resting on the edge

of

Evening’s infinity pool.

Beaded condensation

collects

upon the tawny flesh

above the lips

of an aqua blue-green eyed

southern belle,

gazing gold’s glint,

gone

in favor of the House,

again.

She waits

and holds her breath,

weighing heavy

in the hot, humid air,

gathered to a still

in the center of the storm.

Lightning splits open

the crushed velvet cache

&

thunder resounds

like sirens peel silence.

Decadence of diamonds

spills from heaven

&

quenches her thirsty skin

as triple digits

lose

thirty degrees

in minutes.

She walks away a winner

and will bet again tomorrow

on the hot streak

of

Summer monsoons

&

their cold sunset flush.