July Poem

I cannot get over
what I cannot get done.
All the little leaves
make a big pile
on the tiny curbs
of 10th Avenue.
Even the squirrels
have a certain sass.
"Don't give me none
of your your sass,"
I say to no one but you.
Still, the sun creeps over
the radiant High Line.
My sweat tastes
like a sports drink
on your forearm. I know
a thing or two about
things like drawing lines,
not even sort of, but
like 100% Sol Lewitt.
In the quiet
of an afternoon
in July in New York City
I think I see everyone
enjoying the fairly
pleasant weather
while war rages on
nearly everywhere.
Catch your breath.