Poem: July 21, 2019

Heat Wave

Seven a.m. and already 80 degrees,
a wall, something you have to push
yourself into, a day that already has
the jump on you, that glares down
on you, that licks its lips like you are
the frog in the pot, a day that would
pin you to the ground. You know this.
You know there's not a thing worth
doing, not a job that couldn't be put off
for a day or two. Best to just stay put,
behind closed doors, dim the lights,
and listen to the AC hum its hum.