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 gooAnd 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