a wild bouquet of 3-year-olds
fling themselves into water jets
and sit down
giggling
before they dissolve into the
arms of the crowd
 
oh the racket!
of the little ones
who are deliriously
happy
being doused by buckets of water
 
almost as gleeful
as their dad
who has a couple of them
over his shoulder
sopping wet
and squealing
 
It is into this incalescent
Kentucky Sunday,
the kind that could stifle
conversation with heat and sweat
and divert every kind intent
that we call for
 
bloody marys,
maybe 2
no celery stalk
but olives
which shipwreck and sink
to the bottom
of the glass

(In remembrance of those hot August days; written in 2014)