Summer smells final

A poem on keeping the wheel turning amid the turning of the summer season

It’s the smell of summer.

The world is open, characters of varying styles walk the train station platforms.

We discover anew the pleasure of buying tickets and the travel applications reinstalled on our phones, which glisten almost as much as the ocean.

At this dreadful hour a blazing sun takes its revenge on large families with capricious children soaked in SPF50.

Sitting on an old decrepit bench, we listen to various voices. Someone prefers their godmother to their mother, another speaks like Agnès Varda and a grandfather tells old stories to his grandson, while his daughter rambles to herself.

Both the optimist and the pessimist have gone on vacation.

But what about you? Are you unhappy? Why are you unhappy? Don’t you have a vacation? Well, someone has to keep the wheel turning, like my rodent Dr. Grey. But Dr. Grey is having fun, while you bend over backwards to make the world go round.

The controller passes at the speed of light. Polite and hygienic, I assume he likes what he does. I, on the other hand, stink.

I’ll be there soon, only a few stops left. The family in front of me is Belgian-German, beautiful! Almost cool. The father complains, the mother nods.

The children listen to the music spat out by their CD player, before looking into their little oceans with empty eyes.