Dew Point (Part 1)

Most won’t run in “normal” temps; I run best in advisories, while injured, after a cigarette.

 

***

 

Sweet putrid smells greet the nose, as it goes, in the air around this city.

 

Noon, as we steadily increase to terminal dew point, a midday jungle hell, all the populous feels and knows, pressures build as dead swell.

 

Praying a fast hour to follow.

 

An almost empty glass bottle, wood-corked, lay with remnant rose’ along the side of sweltering asphalt streets.

 

Bike frames lacking single tires, basement doors easily unlocked, the city is almost barren, inside to air-conditioning, and fans, people flock.

 

There are three places to find relief:  first, the library, second, the basement, and third, the beach.

Bring water and a small dirty sheet.

 

Sand, or leather chair-suit your fancy, free yourself of cares.

Less words, more discrete, fast on feet, on a mission, thoughts of cold sleep.

 

The only objective is to beat the heat.

Weather mental-disease; fight the condition, and remember to breathe.

 

Thoughts of comfort released.

 

Shirtless again, three showers later, and I still sit in wet.

It is too hot to feel defeat.

Times like these we forget.

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