after Frank Sinatra's "Summer Wind"
We were classy.
Big time classy like
dark and light grains of wood
on the same floor, but from
trees nipped at the coasts where
currency comes in the form of gold
smiles and sunlight not hot
enough to fry eggs, but motherly enough
to make breaths take like yellow bodied cakes
with chocolate frosting
and easy like spring form pans
and slow droughts from fat lipped wine glasses.
We were classy.
Mad classy and maddeningly uncaste
to the rat packers and packed self identifying
brash and brattish hunch shouldered cats.
We were brass and cool to touch.
We were wrenches in worked palms
and pens to inkblot finger tips
and idea crazed and insane more still
and passion possessed like river swells
in a season dry enough
to malnourish all of New England.
We were classy and hellishly so.
It's not just the sky that's blue
now that the sun is high.
It's not just the clouds that are gray
these days
when contrast goes away.
We were classy
and summer 9 weeks out of season
and better than stubborn
for the sake of expectation.
We were classy.
