by Mather Schneider
is the luck
of the heat-beat.
Monsoon claustrophobia
stuffs wet rags down our throats
while the nights become
our spit-on respite.
Television weathermen
are strung up at noon, radios
shot-gunned.
Every drugged-up drama queen
throws a tantrum for dignity
and a glorious life
without struggle.
The sun shimmers
like orange marmalade
and even the music
melts.
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