Late June |
by Spencer Hanvik

Cradled in the trumpet of midday,
two boys walk through a side door, into the kitchen.
A cat in an open window turns to look
then turns away, uninterested.
On the other side of the house, in a small sitting room,
the TV is barely audible. The curtains are closed—
blue flashes over the reddish dark.

Eating cheese and mustard sandwiches,
the boys sit across from the television.
Actors whisper their shouts from the speakers.
An electrical hum rises. The screen becomes
a colossal blue—an ocean, the room’s shag carpeting.
The heat of daytime returns to dusk.
Too bored now to move, the sandwiches eaten,
the boys vanish into the flickering blue
with the good-looking men and women.
Still now, behind the neighborhoods,
the boys ride slow bulls through shallow grass,
out of the bell of a horn, which holds the world.

Spencer Hanvik is an MFA student in poetry at Arizona State University. He lives with his cat Prudence in Tempe, AZ.