Heat

We are silly people,
hiding from this
Heat.

We pay hard-earned cash to
maintain synthetic igloos. Then
lose an article or two to find that light brown,
that light brown like toast, but softer.

I am not the color of toast, I am
the color of my mother.
A beautiful pink, a rosy rosy freckle.

Please, yes, open the back door.
And maybe this weather will kill
those pretty vines choking the pines.