Heat Wave Boredom

Eyes fixed on the ceiling fan

Watching it turn

Round and round

Immune to its squeaking sound

Toes buried in carpet threads

Unconsciously pulling

Then pushing down

Silent rows

Between the toes

Sliding up and all around

Beads of perspiration

Some flowing

Others growing

Armpit stains look like rain

Drenching unwillingly

In their heavy acridity

Buzzing flies

But moving slow

Heavy air feels like dough

Each breathe a struggle

Feels like a jungle

A heat wave of immense proportion

Time shattering the routine

Revealing pages in between

Another turn

But still the burn

The hours go and then return

Whether noon or four

Or five or nine

The air stays hot

Sun still shines

Window panes glowing white

Much too long until the night

Their reflections

Reveal imperfections

Bubbled glass

Hides the burned up grass

Surrendered some way

To the heat of the day

Maybe next year

Hard now to say

Another yawn

Another sigh

Brutal sun and cloudless sky

Flower beds gone and died

Gave up my yard

Ground gone hard

Trees withered

Branches splintered

Nothing moving

But spiny lizards

Cracks in the ground

Form without sound

Like a budding river

Getting bigger

But no water in the tributaries

Just a whispered obituary

And more dust on the prairie

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R J Schwartz

I write about everything and sometimes nothing at all.I'm fascinated by old things, rusty things, abandoned places, or anywhere that a secret might be unearthed.I'm passionate about history and many of my pieces are anchored in one concept of time or another.I've always been a writer, dating back to my youth, but the last decade has been a time of growth for me.I'm continually pushing the limitations of vocabulary, syntax, and descriptive phrasing.

Latest posts by R J Schwartz (see all)

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