July
Zach Thomas

His dusty baby.
Her crumpling paper breaths,
her nose meaty in the hot street,
in a little ruff that looked,
a friend once noted,
like a pricey cloak.
He trudged off
and whimpered in the trees.
The towel sagged.
He laid it where
he coaxed her down
and she followed him
straight-tailed home
those summers ago.