You spurned July, lounging
in the finished basement of your parents' ranch. Said
to climb the stairs was taxing, would ask for
                       me to grab a Coke from the fridge
and then mute
MTV to call for the chips that turned
your fingers orange.

Afternoons spent
                       in the cool
                                   damp, only rising
                       after dusk to drive
me home. Lazing, languid. The frail, thin, limp wrists
we'd pluck and let drop.