This

I'd rather be writing poetry
Than this drivel
About how this impressive heat
Seems to melt
My skin
As I sit on the roof
Of this five story
Brownstone walkup
In the middle of this
Artificial environment.
Somewhere the wind blows
But this place welcomes
Only sleepless rushes of breath
As the taxies honk
And stir the withered leaves
As they rush uptown
Or down.
I saw Gloria
Sitting on her stoop
This afternoon,
She seemed almost lifeless,
A crayon on the dashboard,
Against the stone rail.
She wore this tank top,
Sizes too big,
Now form fitting
All soaked with sweat
And the spray
From her water bottle.
She didn't wave
As I walked by,
Why waste the energy
Giving this salty moisture
An excuse
To add to the tightness.
I caught this ice-like sparkle
Of the sun refracting through
This drop at the end
Of her soaked hair.
She looks good
No matter the weather.
Three weeks
90 plus
No wind,
Smog
Vega doesn't even show through.
The sun can't walk south
Fast enough.
Still
At this after midnight hour
Gloria sits on the hearth.
I should discard
This pen
This page
And this futile attempt
At anything poetic
And go talk to this woman.
I may not get away
From this heat
But perhaps
Just maybe
I'll have a reason
To forget it
For a while.

Michael Bahm

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