While toasting chilled cheers of summer wine we stream
Doc Martin in for a visit and he stays and tells a meandering tale
above and below the seaside village of Portwenn that ends
in a cliff hanger--promised to be resolved in Part II.
The temperature drops to ninety-nine and we saunter out where
he waters window boxes and I hear him sing, "You can't always
get what you wa-ant" as the dog takes me for a walk around
the block slowly, her tongue hanging out, her ears flopping in.
We celebrate ninety-eight with Dove Bars on the steps. Above
the din of Cicadas we talk about Mondays. Alone in slick humid heat
our hearts are quiet and bodies full as we slide inside nudging
the AC down and head for bed as the dog follows behind up the stairs.
She has nothing to do.
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