This is a repost from last year, but since it’s hotter than a witch’s bunyons again here in the Baked Apple, I felt the need to complain openly and in rhyme–and my brain’s too overheated to think of a new poem. So, feel free to pour yourself a frosty tall glass of iced-tea, crank up the A.C. and have at it. (You’ll feel so much better afterward, I promise.)
It’s one of those sweltering, hot summer days.
Not a hint of a breeze and the sun is ablaze.
The sidewalk is smoking, the air is too thick,
I need gallons of water and ice cubes to lick.
The people out walking look sleepy and damp,
And the letter I’m mailing won’t stick to the stamp.
My sneakers are melting and stuck to my toes,
And my glasses are foggy and slide down my nose.
My clothes are all wrinkled and wet—nothing fits.
And Olympic-size sweat pools encircle my pits.
With no trace of spit, I can’t swallow or speak,
And I’d run for that bus, but I can’t—I’m too weak.
It’s too hard a choice to go left or go right,
My whole body’s expanding, my hair is too tight.
That pen in my pocket’s too heavy a load,
And I think I just saw a small pigeon explode.
Those men wearing suit jackets aggravate me,
’Cause they won’t take them off—IT’S ONE-HUNDRED-AND-THREE!
It’s only July, lots of summer to go.
I can’t wait to complain about blizzards and snow.
Copyright 2012 John J. Bonk