August
The sprinkler twirls.
The summer wanes.
The pavements wears
Popsicle stains.
The playground grass
Is worn to dust.
The weary swings
Creak, creak with rust.
The trees are bored
With being green.
Some people leave
The local scene.
And go to seaside
Bungalows
And take off nearly
All their clothes.
John Updike
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