Summer Days Are Gone So Quickly
- Earl Fowler
- Jun 15
- 1 min read
Quinn McIlhone
Overcome by hunger
on taking a job,
I scoff two lobsters
at La Bodega
as we discuss
my good fortune.
I’ll make solid money,
and feel empowered
by my change of status,
but you’re not certain
about my emergence
as a corporate warrior.
On learning my salary,
you are taken aback
and sip water
to compose yourself.
You enjoy buying me
a monthly bus pass
and paying for movie tickets,
but suddenly
I’m the big earner.
It occurs to me
I’ll never know
what it is to be flush
when single,
but I don’t care.
No amount of money
will get me a girl
as nice as you.
A citizen and taxpayer,
I clean my lips
with a cloth napkin
and throw down a few bills
as we leave.
You wear a new summer dress
to the show at the museum
and I admire you as we shuffle
past the Braque sculptures.
But when we have coffee
on a terrasse off Sherbrooke
across the street
from the Musée,
you are shy nonetheless,
as though apologizing
for your loveliness.
We sip lattes
on this sunny Saturday,
comfortable in silence,
content to love
without words.
I should be a man
and ask you how
a divorcée goes about
getting remarried,
but the timely gesture
has always eluded me.
Instead I try to be clever
about the art exhibit,
keeping all options open
for my illustrious future.
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