Grubs

Summer wanes. Rains, absent in hot August scorch blade and body. Oh, for a cool drink! My legs? My legs! I’ve lost my legs…and my straws, too.

Jaundiced–then brown–the browns of death fall over me. He sees me, watching, thinking, knowing. Am I being scalped? Yanked by the sod of my pate? Wait, what is this? He’s right, of course. I had grubs.

Lingering thoughts, like a bad aroma.