It’s the kind of hot John Prine sang about.
It got so hot last night, I swear
you couldn’t hardly breathe
I alternate between a cold beer and warm water, the beer was in the icebox, the water sits on the counter. My tank top is thin and cropped, a soft shade of cream that keeps me cooler than if I wore anything else, though it’s streaked with dirt, coffee, and blood from the dryness of my nose. I lifted my finger to the dried blood, and I must’ve touched my right breast.
I’m standing with the rug pushed back, my bare, reddish-brown toes thick and swollen , and write. I flick away a fly, only to touch a tear of sweat trickling down the back of my leg, carrying with it gray dirt. The shower from yesterday morning in a city campground, the kind where you feel strange getting naked, because you wonder what all has gone on there, a distant memory. Was that only yesterday?
I wear a wet bandanna of navy blue ‘round my neck, and from time to time, take the pup and cat out to the spigot to douse us all. It’s a rare and wonderfully lonely afternoon, a rarity on the road and our little space that we call home, and the heat forces me to stand still.