It's the kind of humid day where
man-made atheisureware sticks to your pores
cloaking you in an unwelcome,
soaking warmth.
As if you're a slower cooker crock
in a thermal sleeve
belted to the passenger seat,
leaking beads of umami sweat
en route to a cross-town potluck.
The type of morning where
your carefully selected Lululemon fabric
suffocates you on a cellular level
as you labor to get in a pre-work walk.
The sort of seven o'clock where
the wild calls from the forest canopy
could be avian or simian,
you're not quite sure.
The dawn melts into morning
as your flesh becomes steamed dumplings
glistening and plump as you close your circuit.
Soon (too soon) it's time
to shed Lycra for linen and pearls,
don a button-downed worker disguise.
But riding shotgun with you,
as you descend into the garage structure,
is the feral grip of summer fever,
for you are molten at your core.
