Hot

So hot,

not even the frogs talk.

Crickets keep their quiet.

Sticky ham fist grip,

wet as old bath water.

Dirty smoke smudge Monday;

sick and tired

of the fires

and the hopeless visages.

Drink another beer,

the water’s rife with parasites

and they wiggle in your body,

makes it hard to sleep at night.

Roll and toss,

turn and complain;

that we’re tired of being able

to leave our love

on the bedside table.

Sun hides,

haze darkens.

Pit stained frock,

another summer scion,

slick like the back

of an old green frog.

 

HG – 2017

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