Soup
The air was air and the breath was breath.
The skies were blue and the mornings fresh.
Walks in early summer, so invigorating,
‘Til the soup came and spoiled everything.
Air’s so thick, so slow, so lazy.
Sitting still like a tired old lady,
So gray, so soupy, so silent, so whist,
As the sunshine hides from the misty mist.
Tropical ancestors carried away the air,
From southern climes to places everywhere,
Northward ho in buckets by the thousands,
On the backs of slaves to the very end.
By mid September again we shall breathe,
When the air returns with the autumn breeze.
“Hold still my friend and please don’t fret.”
As featured in "The Belt and Beyond" magazine
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