The sprinkler twirls. 
   The summer wanes. 
The pavement wears 
   Popsicle stains. 

The playground grass 
  Is worn to dust. 
The weary swings  
  Creak, creak with rust. 

The trees are bored 
  With being green. 
Some people leave  
  The local scene.  

And go to seaside 
  Bungalows 
And take off nearly 
  All their clothes. 
 

John Updike