Melt (poem)

Melt

Either air that has color, must that I can swim through
filling my lungs like the bad drink;
Or swarms of tiny things with needle faces poking
red insecurities, itchy mounds.

Either the exploding heat of leather exposed to leg
and frion-less AC blowing murky from vents;
Or a selfish sun screaming from two surfaces,
sucking liquid from skin--leaving red and thirsty.

Imagine a departure from sameness, particles of sweat
dangling from anxious hairs. It's a sunken highway,
an underpass away from the scenic route.

The swells of swelter like erasers clapping against dusty
chalkboards, forgetting what was written and recalling
only the cough caused by all those particles that collected,
a cork in your throat.

Don't tell me fun and sell me on breezes and beaches,
because you will fail as we all do

as gawky creatures. As we do.