Warm

Wet, muggy air hits my face this May,
Wince, my face does,
Sun shone, burn
bigger cracks into dry mud,
parched leaves shower dusty disbelief
pipes ran dry, and yet fans squeaked
in sultry rooms,
barely moving the heavy air
My face, shone with resplendour,
was just rivulets of salty excretion
shirts stuck, as traffic slowed
in bright heat,
we rinse our brow
every opportune, drink
this glorious summer
in our warm souls.