August

 For the whole month of August I did not write a poem,

When September came I said, it is time to get goin',

For when the summer came, I gave up in disgust,

"It's too hot to write", said I,  "in the month of August"

To commemorate this dry and barren wasteland

I purposed to make good,  snatching keyboard to hand,

Though it's over and gone I feel that I must

Commemorate, that my memory ate, 

The Month of August

For heat haze and blur of the mind

And time too, the thief, had been too unkind

And though I swore I would never go bust,

I look back and lament

The month of August

Mothlike the month eats away at me like rust,

Leaving holes in my memory,

Of the month of August