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It's one-hundred-and-two and we have nothing to do.
The heat pales a blue sky. The drought saps
all that is green.

Birds flock to the feeders and bathe in their bath.
A dozen varieties at various times fly in and fly out
as we lazily count.

One-hundred-and-one and we move to the front as
the porch swing squeaks coming forth and going back—   
my head on a pillow, my legs on his lap.
We read poetry for we have nothing to do.  

I read Collins' Shoveling Snow with Buddha and we smile and sip  
cool lime water. As the ice melts he reads Seibles' The Ballad of Sadie Lababe, "Cause Sadie moved like water poured."

It's one-hundred degrees—a sultry move into evening. We
slip inside and having nothing else to do, slice a baguette,
aged Gouda, cucumber, tomato and a sweet Colorado peach.

We toast chilled cheers of summer white wine and stream
Doc Martin in for a visit and he stays and tells a meandering tale
above and below the seaside village of Portwenn that ends
in a cliff hanger—promised to be resolved in Part II.

The temperature drops to ninety-nine and we saunter out where
he waters window boxes and I hear him sing, "You can't always
get what you wa-ant" as the dog takes me for a walk around 
the block slowly, her tongue hanging out, her ears flopping in.


We celebrate ninety-eight with a shared raspberry slush on the front stoop and, above the din of Cicadas, we talk about Mondays. Alone

in slick humid heat our hearts are quiet and bodies full

as we slide inside nudging the AC down and head for bed. 

The dog follows behind up the stairs.

102 Degrees