Summertime in the Tropics

Shriveled stinkin’ missies and automobile carcasses
Are only secondary players
In this season of distraction.
See little Joe-boy running,
Naked,
Mirrored in shards of hindsight
Gleaming like great barrier nemesis
Besides the gully,
Taunting with its sluggish new rain cargo,
Threatening to engulf him with the big chill
Should nimble-footedness go awry.
Simmering asphalt laid anew,
The playground of indigenous tennis endeavours;
Nay mind of the blisters tomorrow
From barefooted escapades to Wimbledon imagined,
Play on boy, play on.
Politicked road-repaving ritual ceases,
Temporarily.
Nail-hard veterans
And milk-breathed newcomers
Take heed of Herion’s spite.
Brooding evergreen of “Big Tree” fame provides shelter,
Even to proud and prissy sistren pamphleteering
And disregarding construction site connived catcalls.
These daily rituals are interrupted.
Distant clouds darken the tranquil sky-blue canopy
As nearer they draw.
Lightning splits the heavens into equal parts
Not quite down to the last nth
One,
Two,
Three…
Crash, bang, wallop
The sky is falling, the sky is falling,
Take no heed of the miniscule chicken
Sly fox lurks anxiously
Dinnertime approaches.
John-John watches from windowpane restraint,
Ruing nail injustices
And the resultant sanctions.
The deluge breaks,
Sweeping across Waterford Bottom,
Listen –
Feel it Drum,
Drum, drumming across the stadium roof
And galvanized abodes.
Thar’ she blows
Here she comes around the mountain
Ahhhh!!!
It come.
Phewwww!!!
At least its not sun,
‘Cause sun would be hot
And the rain,
It’s not;
Unless,
It’s Summertime in the Tropics.