For those among us with the cola addiction

The sweaters are coming off
We smile delicate smiles,
those of the almost-there-hopefulness,
not-to-sure-but-I’m-still-pretty-confident.
Crack—fizz!—peel back the metal top
and drink, savoring the cool sensation…
Hey! It’s warm enough outside
to feel condensation on the can.

The charmed life is here,
with sweaty faces and barbeque-filled laughs
swirling above the bon fire
smoke dancing among fireflies.
My red-stained lips drink in the fizz,
eyes swimming in the crimson light
of the setting sun shining through
at the bottom.

The sand-filled jeeps are parked,
the beach bags in the backs of closets.
Falling leaves surround and that nagging chill—
not biting enough for a sweater but
not hot enough for those sunburnt cheeks,
fire-lit faces, chlorine-dried hair.
Drink it because you can,
it’s dull and losing its zing but
the good old times will come back
if you close your eyes
and wish hard enough
as the last few sips say goodbye.

6:00 pm, nighttime already.
We push the hot cocoa aside
and drink the soda instead,
because who cares if our fingers
freeze to the can?
We will swallow the cold,
freeze our color-drained lips,
and wait for the moment to arrive
when the cold doesn’t hurt,
the darkness isn’t frightening,
and the seasons don’t leave us
in the same way every year.