8 A.M.


Not even 8 a.m. and it's warm already,
The sun a bright beacon above the trees.

Where do the snails go
When the mercury rises to eighty?

I try to stay inside but something lures me out
To see the heat waves rising from the sidewalk.

Too much sun slows down the pace
Of every living creature in the city.

All of us pause from our laboured breathing
To fervently wish for the coolness of evening.


©2016 Michael Fraley




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