Winter dogs melt on the sidewalk in the name of fashion,
they blister and boil beneath fur meant for Up North.
The city smells like death, all
piss and shit. Shit and Piss.
(Piss being liquid that's died,
shit being food that's died.)
Home is where the A/C is,
and welcomes are run out
by those seeking the thrill of climate control,
jumping from chilled spot to chilled spot,
before making it home to sweat
on already stained sheets.
Morning comes and the fans buzz fruitlessly,
spreading warmth and stench
and faintly blowing hair but offering no respite.
On the trains you can taste the putridity of others nearby.
Sleeveless arms, short-clad legs, all awash
in a pool of sticky humans.
And I lace up my shoes
(it's a force of habit)
and go outside.
My run becomes a jog becomes a walk becomes a sit.
I materialize back home, chug a glass of lukewarm water
and awake the next morning to do it all again.
The creaky walk to the toilet
- every cell depleted; every vacuole zapped of moisture -
to let a trickle of molasses urine rattle around the bowl.
Never not sweating.
Summer is the fucking worst.
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