summertime

if only you hadn't left your drink

sitting there on the balcony

in hot, carolina heat

sweating, swirling with the pulp,

beads of perspiration

counting the seconds

like a clock -

then maybe

when you lost it

and your temper finally snapped

and your hand slipped and

the knife thudded to the deck,

the drops of blood

wouldn't have dripped

dripped

dripped

right into the glass

with the striped paper straw

and the long-melted ice

and I would not have looked down

and seen my own life

blossom and bloom in the glass

and I would not have

any reason to hate

pink lemonade

or any lemonade,

the way that I do now.