The temperature is eighty-one degrees,
but just because we choose to set it there.
I sit with a book balanced on my knees
in our comfy, overstuffed reading chair.
Beside me, my tea glass has got the sweats
(a junkie half-full or -empty of smack).
The weathermen are calling off all bets
for rain, and even inside we are slack
and listless. Were there only a few clouds
we might be drawn outside to work the yard,
set out the sprinkler, mulch it, spread manure.
But what's the point? Hot hopelessness enshrouds
such efforts, dries the topsoil to a hard
cracked slate, on which no marks may long endure.
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