It is burning skin against leather seats

It is thighs and undersides drenched in sweat

It is heat waves rising above the street.

 

I’ll leave my pizza in the garage on top of the car, better than an oven.

I can’t remember what it’s like to feel a chill, see my breath, stomp through snow.

Perhaps I’ll be saying the same about summer in the dead of February, but this is the hottest hot.

 

I will be simple this summer, because I cannot afford to be anything else.

I will restrain my anger, because I’ve got to keep all the cool I can.

I won’t provoke hateful comments, because I won’t be able to handle the burn.

I will, however, involve myself in questionable activity to find as much shade as possible.

I won’t be overly complicated because it’s too hot to have more than one layer.

 

The hottest hot is a summer in Atlanta.