I don’t mean late as in, belated. I mean late as in, good-grief-it’s-already-August-and-therefore-late-summer-and-kids-are-going-back-to-school-and-there’s-a-chill-in-the-air-and-I-still-want-my-sunny-afternoons-lounging-by-a-pool. That kind of late. And it’s that kind of late that I hate (hey, that rhymes! I’m a poet and I didn’t even know it). But instead of moping around, staring out the window as one, then two, then three leaves fall …

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