I hear that in NYC, streets are soft and movement between air-conditioned buildings is a personal risk. The announcer on WFCR Public Radio warns of dogs and audiocassettes left on dashboards, dead by midday. By evening, the death toll exceeds the temperature. Are your sheets a cocoon cemented by night air thicker than the walls in your apartment? Can you hear Mr. heat rash next door kicking his girlfriend with bare feet? There must be hundreds of them out there or in this building alone. A cacophony of boiled wife beaters and child abusers. Hot wind irritability rises like the cost of shorts and sandals. I just bought new gloves on sale for a steal in anticipation of winter.

All Poems © by Egil Dennerline, 2004