i
sit in
my attic office
sweating. it’s 95 degrees
outside but a little cooler
in the attic, which surprises me.
salty
oily liquid
drips from my
scalp, trickles down my
forehead, through thinning eyebrows, onto
my eyelids, stinging my weary eyes.
the
back of
my shirt against
the black office chair
sports a huge wet circle,
growing bigger as I write this.
Elsewhere
my body
leaks, drips, dampens,
saturates, already soggy cotton
undergarments, a linen top, pair
of capris, glued to wet skin.
Ugh. What about the air conditioning?
(And I thought it was going to take a turn there, with sweat running down between your boobs, but you took the classier direction, of course.)
I have a window unit in the attic, but it is really loud and my workday had ended. I endured the sweat for artistic purposes. By the time I got to writing about my neck I was ready to head to the cooler part of the house.
Almost that hot in Vermont…so much sweat. Nice.
These nights refuse to cool down. Read your poem while sweating…seems perfect to me!