It’s morning, it’s boiling,
I’m scared a tad
To melt like hot honey
And drown in sweat.
The sky is so placid.
I’m trawling the Net
To put on my music
And damp the birds’ tweets.
I’m sticky for skeeters,
Can’t breathe in this fug.
We’re all like meat fritters
That sizzle in a pan.
The end of the summer
Is our little death.
Been longing all year
For stark withered shapes.
Muggy
© Copyright: Рита Данилевская, 2021
Свидетельство о публикации №121062002903
Свидетельство о публикации №121062002903
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