Picture this: the sun engraving sweat streaks
On your sizzling skin, stinging your eyes
As the humid heat hits your cheeks
Painting pain all over your 37°C-and-rising
Body stuck in the thick traffic like on all weeks
Barely breathing, headed home from the day’s trials.
And a-blaring come crowding the air those sirens:
The horns from cars speeding as if to mock
Our stillness. The cops with walkie-talkies pulling reins
On all who wish the way home were shorter:
“Order!” “wait!” The horns go from shrill – and since
There’s “order” – to barytone peace while we still sweat.
The sun’s still engraving its streaks on me
The heat still heating my sorry cheeks
This metallic cage stuck amongst so many
Others like it, ordered to stop for the glorious horns,
Is starting to feel like a microwave oven to me.
But what can I do? The gods were passing.