Hot air filtering through the
window screen eddies
around me as I sit with you
sometimes I expect to see a little smoke
or even an angry fire–feel compelled to
toss whatever object to feed the flames.
Only not today when the first of the many
storms you warned me of
has yet done nothing but relieve me
from the heat, while
delightful little sprays dampen old letters
I should never have chucked into the oven to dry.
On such a day as this
who could guess
that the fire trailing behind you
was a warning?