How To Survive A Southern Summer by John Grey

HOW TO SURVIVE A SOUTHERN SUMMER

Open a window,

otherwise you’re living in a tomb.

Avoid dying on a humid Wednesday,

slumped in the communal vinyl throne

of some dive hotel where roaches

outnumber tenants.

When alone, spit.

Among the mob, shrink to a breath.

Perch yourself under stars if they show.

Or among that unjudgmental rain.

Hydrate. But keep your heart arid.

Always wear protection down under -

even a dog-eared bus pass counts.

Paper towel rolls are good for the soul - squeeze.

And mosquitoes? Kill them

before they kill you.

Forget your failings. Everyone else has.

Take a lover, even if imaginary.

Every ceiling is a sieve—plan accordingly.

Don’t lose sleep over stink.

Ignore feral kids skittering like hens.

Skip crime novels and football scores.

Refuse hands that beg.

But never pass a food truck without stopping.

Sorrow’s just a child playing quietly - let her.

Avoid trucks and truck drivers.

Complain little, embrace less.

Don’t go outdoors when bats own the sky.

Don’t meet the eyes of chained men.

John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in Midnight Mind, Novus and Abbey. Latest books, “Bittersweet”, “Subject Matters” and “Between Two Fires” are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in the MacGuffin, Touchstone and Willow Review.