It’s fragging hot out.

by

The thermometer creeps
up on me, patient, sly,
freezing itself when I
give it my evil look
(Kills flies on sight! Perfect
for all home, garden use!
Copyright applied for)
It knows, oh yes, it does;
it knows that I am not
As patient as it is.

It can wait for my guard
to drop, light up a smoke
(Dammit, dammit, dammit,
Why did I quit smoking?)
just like in those movies
where the sentry is just
waiting for the hero
to come by and kill him –
Yes, very soon I’ll stop
drop my eyes, read more blogs
and the thermometer
creeps up just a bit more.
Stealthy commando, yeah,
ready for zero hour;
Making my life sweaty.

And not in a good way.

5 thoughts on “It’s fragging hot out.”

  1. Hmm, the slam didn’t. Oh well.
    Cold here in SF – mid-50s and drizzly.
    Not looking forward to summer in Iraq.

  3. “Hmm, the slam didn’t. Oh well.”
    The universe got four more poems out of it than it would have otherwise. That’s a plus in my book.
    “Cold here in SF – mid-50s and drizzly.”
    Grrr. Arggh.

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