There you lie, the last of your kind, on the north side of an apartment building in Waterloo, cowering under this pathetic whithered shroud of last year's pine needles. Dusted from the filth of your unending winter bender, you lie there inert and cool to the touch, crusty like an unwashed rummy sleeping off his last mouthful of distilled damnation.* Your reign was the stuff of Shakespearean legend - relentless, aggressive, driven by hubris: Fie on you, foul pile - even as the hounds of spring doth curse your alabaster shores with their yellow nectar. Sure enough, in the end you too will eventually evaporate and wind up as some mere cloud of vapour; with any luck you will drift far from here and condense on the inside of a toilet bowl in a god-forsaken overcrowded frat house some Friday night next autumn.
Melt as slowly as you like in the shadows, you bastard - I, for one, would happily wait around to kick the dust of summer square into your tiny trickle of tears... but I prefer to rush home and put on shorts. Goosebumps be damned.
Wow. That felt good. And to think I even enjoyed cross-country skiing this past December...
*Thanks to Matt Johnson, "Perfect."
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