The Cicada

Summer expects something
the lawn needs mowing,
the fence painted,
parades.

Knee to chin against the wall,
I watch the old man run past my window,
seven a.m., like always.
My neighbor backs out at 7:15.
Saints.

It is better to stay silent as summer passes,
to wait
until the last cicada clicks.

I wait for winter winds
to freeze my jealousy,
when everyone stays inside,
the old man stops running,
and no one sees I never left.

Augustus Rivers