Too Hot For Anything But Cinquain

Flash summer storm,
The fan I’ve turned on high,
My neighbor in her gossip mode—
Hot air.

Could fry an egg.
Too hot to walk barefoot.
The asphalt melts beneath car wheels.

The sweat
Runs down my nose,
Forms currents down my back,
And plasters underwear to skin:
Heat wave.



5 thoughts on “Too Hot For Anything But Cinquain

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