Your summer is a long, steamy affair
After Spring’s
sweet, but very brief, flirtation.
It’s filled with tourists, flip-flops, frizzy hair
And water bans on
all but perspiration.
The air’s like maple syrup to walk through;
You have to chew each
breath as if it’s cotton.
The sun makes side-street asphalt give like goo
And takes five
seconds to turn fresh fruit rotten.
Your streets are never quite as hot as hell—
Just nastier than
armpit stains in silk.
In August, twenty zip codes will all smell
Like rotten
lettuce soaked in sour milk.
Thank God for
Central Park, the city’s jewel:
It’s the one
place where everyone feels cool.
Copyright 2014
Matthew J Wells
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