Heat Wave

Heat Wave

I make my way through to where you wait,
sleeping. The sky hauls
wispy clouds in, protectors
of blue monotony.

You are under a willow tree.
You've forgotten to bring a book so
you sleep, fitfully,
in the steep heat's
sticky envelope.

I have something to tell you,
but I'm leery of waking you.
I am sweaty in my sandals.
I've brought pita sandwiches
& bottled water for our lunch.

This section of the park is empty
& we like it that way.
I sense that if I wake you
you'll just be too hot –
if too hot, cranky maybe.

A jogger, porpoise-sleek, flashes
by. What I have to tell you
turns, humidly, into a headache.
On my shoulders, heat rash marks
where earlier there were
backpack straps.

I think of something else to tell you,
but it's only about this weather, nothing
you aren't feeling already.

I'm losing my appetite,
my desire to have you notice me,
my thoughts about my thoughts.

I decide – I think wisely –
to let you sleep.