postage stamp

A Winter wardrobe strews the sun-scorched sage
while specks of Dacron dance the bright Spring air.
His club-mates mark his spot, but not his rage.
Their lamb for Wanda, girt in underwear,
has been accepted! Their day's just begun.
they've miles to log as lift and luck allow
before the glory of the driving sun
is blotted out by towers of rumbling cloud.
The driver drops some beers, but dares not wait;
his radio can't reach past line-of-sight.
For dawdling to pack up, he'll marinate
in bitterness until sometime tonight.
By breakfast, as the exploits get retold
he'll feign to sympathize that they got cold.