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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 was 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 degrees and we move to the front as
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 and 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 to visit; 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. 

Zoe follows behind up the stairs.

   102 Degrees

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