My grandmother had beds put out
on her summer porch, where we’d lie
on cool sheets
those summer afternoons with our books.
We’d fan ourselves with church pictures,
And Grandmother would shake her hankie at her face,
saying “Pshaw! It’s not as hot as last summer,
just a bit close is all. Have some more lemonade.”
She’d send my uncle down to buy a nickel’s worth of ice chips
at the ice house. He’d stay there long as he could,
in that coldest spot in town,
filling his body with smells of sawdust and ice blocks.
By the time he’d returned, we’d tired of turning pages, and
started on the games.
The sun had begun that downturn and we could feel
the thermometer slide too.
Time to start supper,
lay the table,
And wait for Grandpa to come in from the fields.