Dog-Days of Summer
by Timothy Reed
They say a dog returns to its vomit
and I can confirm that
in the dog days of summer,
we do too.
When the sun beats down
and the walls grow close
we grow lazy and
instinctual.
Every modern man, sophisticated,
finds himself stripped to the waist,
looking for blood to spill.
We are not good; progress
is a farce.
When we know better,
we do better -
whoever penned that lie
is covered in their own
wretched return: putrid affections.
When we know better,
we only begin to understand
our guilt.
There are times when regret
is the camouflage of pride.
Change is the thing
that matters.
As much as I would like
to put a mile, a yard, or an inch
between me and them,
I was them.
I am them.
Please forgive me.
In the dog days of summer,
we each return to our vomit.
In the dog days of summer,
we all return to the apple-bite.
They say a dog returns to its vomit
and I can confirm that
in the dog days of summer,
we do too.
When the sun beats down
and the walls grow close
we grow lazy and
instinctual.
Every modern man, sophisticated,
finds himself stripped to the waist,
looking for blood to spill.
We are not good; progress
is a farce.
When we know better,
we do better -
whoever penned that lie
is covered in their own
wretched return: putrid affections.
When we know better,
we only begin to understand
our guilt.
There are times when regret
is the camouflage of pride.
Change is the thing
that matters.
As much as I would like
to put a mile, a yard, or an inch
between me and them,
I was them.
I am them.
Please forgive me.
In the dog days of summer,
we each return to our vomit.
In the dog days of summer,
we all return to the apple-bite.
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