He said it was the slimy algae
by Lyn Lifshin

on the steps of the lake,
the steamy black tar,
hot enough to melt
spilled sherbet
in seconds. The leafy
oaks were dripping.
He said as a child they
splashed in hurricane
waters while parents
figured things out in
the humid sultry night.
In the ornate cemeteries,
tombstones tilt, an
elegant decay, a glimmer
of the sparkling debutante
she had been. City
there no
more.
Only memory.



 

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