Regular Poem: Waiting

A still wet night
a fire
pants are sticking
to sticky legs
and the sticky metal
of a sticky chair
the smell of lavender–
it’s potpourri, and
it’s seeped into
the pores;
it’s not warm enough yet for the
smell of honeysuckle–

it’s too chilly
for night hammock
night biking
night convertible
night anything

but not chilly enough
not to be here
outside

waiting

for the season
suddenly
to leapfrog.

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