My August:

My Augusts’ eyes are nothing like the sea;

Clear skies are far more bluer

than his eyes green;

If cotton candy be blue, why then his nipples be black tea;

If chest hair be soft, his chest hairs be coarse.

I have seen many Roses of Sharon,

pink and red,

But no such farmers tan, I see on his sun-kissed skin

And in aglow of a bonfire, his smile there’s earlier sunrises than delightful sunsets

Than in the dimple on my August’s chin

I love to hear him, speak like a surfer, yet I know

That long-boarding, wheels spinning, on boardwalks have far more

desirable sound;

I admit, I never saw a silver spoon, whom didn’t clown around;

My August, when he walks, footprints astound sand can be found.

And yet parties, by beach, I feel my heartbeat blare out of lifted Ford truck speakers unaware

As he loves the limelight like a Hydrangea, August never gave directions heretofore.