(I was getting tired of the same structure)
A quarter sphere
of crape myrtle hangs over
the fence of the house
of the across-the-street neighbors.
Its scent drips down the wood
and across the pavement
to the dog’s nose, lifted high in the wind
like the mast of a sailboat.
It is hot.
Even the wooden deck
burns the bare feet running over it.
The neighbors have their windows closed,
their house an air-conditioned oasis
as the neighborhood
gets drenched in the scent
of their crape myrtle.
The dog hops over to the neighbors’ fence
and adds her own scent
to the sweaty floral
before trotting back to her own chilly room
of air-conditioned summer comfort.