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heat wave :: robert b. shaw

by on October 14, 2015

That power-sapping fan that hacks the air,
sending the tepid slices of it flying,
lacks power and aim alike to land them where
you and I are inconveniently lying,

all of a midnight on the third day straight
of stifling in our inner-city furnace—
as if the town, reflecting urban hate,
had mustered all its surfaces to burn us.

The neighbor’s radio whines out wise advice,
dictating to the audience it serves:
lights out and lemonade and lots of ice.
Diminish bodily contact. Save your nerves.

But temperate counsels such as these are lost
on you and me who meet to mingle sweat,
clinging as though to foil invading frost.
Tonight our native heats are happily met;

tonight considerations pitched beyond
comfort endure, and, having drawn together
the pair of us in such a godly bond,
stand fair to weather out ungodly weather.

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