Hot

Of all the cars that make this train
I had to pick the one
With broken air conditioning
Beneath a gloating sun.

The car feels like a furnace now,
The window’s out of bounds
Though all this heat must surely beat
Emergencies around.

It’s true we’re free to leave this car
And amble over where
The air is cooler than the folks
Who don’t see that it’s there.

But here among the grumbling few
Inertia is king;
We sit and fume and fret to feel
The perspiration spring.

On brows we thought reserved for palms
And wrinkles wrought in lead
By hands advancing time reminding us
That Tuesday’s dead.

But there’s a hidden mercy here
That warns a heedless heart,
One wont to stay when wisdom lies
In choosing to depart.

Post Categories: Poetry
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