The air burns the lungs, the sky burns the head, the tarred road singes the feet.
The eyes droop, the joints ache, the skin pours water in a vain protest.
Hot.
Tis enough that braids stand in the way of sleep,
Tis adequate that cooling devices seem like a waste,
And work waits for no one.
You call, sweet nothings sticking to the ear and irritating the body,
swat, swat, swat away, flies are less bothersome.
You breathe, hot and heavy, irritating the ears again.
Call ended.
No one wishes to be called hot,
for this kind of hot ruins foundations and cements patches on the body,
brown circles with yellowed edges.
Hot.
Gulp, gulp, gulp.
Tis torture to be out in the sun,
Tis torture to be surrounded by walls and corrugated sheets,
Tis the orange ball in the sky determined to tear flesh from bones, to expose evil and illuminate good,
Tis seeking an escape and finding none.
Hot.
The earth is cool.
Blocks of earth, soil.
Wish that I were smaller, less complex.
Red moist soil would be my home.
The End.
Y'all!
This is a poem.
Yes, it is.
BTW, reduce your carbon footprint!
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