by mid-afternoon, the house begins to taste of brass.

not pennies, the smell your fingers inherit

after holding the garden hose too long,

when every drink carries a little of the pipe inside it.

i pour iced tea

until the glass sweats harder than i do.

a wedge of lemon

floats like a reluctant moon.

the first sip is all soft edges,

brown sugar and peach skin,

then the lemon catches up,

it arrives late, but it stays longest,

a sour stain beneath all that gold.

outside,

someone is mowing a lawn

i will never step on.

another neighbour is dragging a plastic pool across the driveway.

it sounds like a giant zipper

closing on the day.

a sprinkler clicks in slow circles.

for five seconds it rains.

for five seconds it doesn't.

the afternoon keeps pretending to be sweet.

the sun stays warm.

the neighbourhood keeps moving.

but the ice melts,

and the sugar disappears with it.

unfortunately,

while you aren’t paying attention,

all that’s left

is lemon.