Hot Morning

Think back in disbelief, your pregnancies in summer and no fans. Swollen you lay flat on cold linoleum where you rented or sat chilly in the tub. Were you that poor or nuts? Your babies exponented now and body drained to empty, struck with déjà vu, no, worse, you guess it never got this hot.

The fans, the fans. Point them head-on at dried eyeballs, whirring wildly. Slat all the window blinds to upward, aim the air up to the ceiling where upstairs it’s baking, for a heat shield like those capsules come from space and coming down in flames. Just stay down here.

Down here and wet your hair until it drips and put on garbing if you must. Must is better, come to think, to keep your flesh from rubbing, clamming up. Go for shapeless breathing thin, all wild and gaping. Forget the slip, who sees, who cares. Desperate times and desperate measures, cottonsheet your grainy itchy sofa, now you have a place to live.

Unlike those who’ve cement highways going past, not some darkling green-gold woods, strewn with honking smoking scorching metal. But oh no no, don’t let the thought and don’t compare. If people with no means like yours are cooking, why then you’re not, you’re cool. Just mustn’t ever say. The rubble of one city algae pooled, where insane rules and clanking tread machines have torn down half the big house, where once they made a garden and grew lettuce and the lady hoed, why should you care. Nobody’s hurling ketchup at your walls. One bush has spread too baggy large so it will go, as will a tree that’s overgrown its place and sucked the rainfall from the lawn, chop chop it down. But not a wrecking ball. Still water table rising from the ground uncoliformed clear cold, good good. Where there’s concrete covered over and they’re boiling they’ll just go and die you guess. Same goes for you you think.

 


 

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