Crepe Myrtles

CREPE MYRTLES

by Cathy Smith Bowers


When the heaviness of dog days
has had its way
with us, they bloom
to stay the doom

of summer's end. Such Popsicles,
these crepe myrtles,
to cool the day's
parched tongue! And where's

the truck that brought them? The little
bell? Clang goes the
ghostly driver
and then is gone.


Cathy Smith Bowers is poet in residence at Queens College, in Charlotte, North Carolina. She is the author of (1992) and Traveling in Time of Danger, to be published this month.


The Atlantic Monthly; December 1998; Crepe Myrtles; Volume 282, No. 6; page 96.


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