The heat here is abysmal.
I mean Georgia was sticky hot.
And Baltimore was humid like hell.
But neither can compare to this inferno
of Dante’s inspiration.
I can’t seem to recognize summer in Rome.
There are no bon fires in bare-foot backyards.
No scents of BBQ and charcoal grills.
I have yet to see a single fire-fly.
Red solo cup.
Or fire-works sale.
I miss air conditioning,
And afternoon thunderstorms –
The way the dark clouds roll in and thirsting leaves turn belly side up.
I miss neighbor-kids gathering on front porches
with artificially stained lips,
sucking on endless freeze pops.
Their carefree, crooked smiles.
I miss dirt-cheap Natty Boh’s.
Highland-town lemonades. American food because you can pretty much eat anything.
And you can always add cheddar cheese.
And you can always add bacon.
And I don’t even eat bacon.
I guess I like the option.
This was his closing argument.
Almost every time.
Even when we were talking about:
And then I would clock out of my shift.
“Get Jules a Redbreast.”
And I would drink a Redbreast.
And it’s still is my favorite whiskey.
But no one calls me Jules anymore.
And I stopped trying to fight
with other peoples
And I haven’t played beer pong in awhile.
And I’ve never seen an Italian shotgun a beer.
But damn it’s hot enough to fry an egg outside,
And I am cracking in this heat.
Just dreaming for a breeze,
And of the places I used to see.
Give the family a kiss.
I miss you girls like hell.
Stay cool and be good.
And never visit Rome in the summertime.