The heat melts on your skin
like Roman Candy in your teeth,
sucking the energy
out like fillings.
Split-pack AC and central air
are more practical
but there’s just something so magical
about lying on your back
watching the ceiling fan rock.
The windows are three-layer painted-shut
so you couldn’t open them
even if you wanted to.
Welcome the mosquitoes in to perch.
When you were a kid, you’d tighten the muscles in your arm
to trap them to you,
watch them panic.
Such stupid little bugs.
When you ride your bike along the levee
and see the river so high up
so close to your feet
you wonder what it might be like to slip in silently
swim with the polluted catfish
watch the Natchez paddle by
avoid the hooks set by men on the levee.
You can’t see the river from your porch anymore.
Someone bought the empty lots at the end of the block
and built tall houses to soak up the view.
Your house is eight feet above sea level,
high up for a house in a swamp
you’ll never flood.
The whole block won’t flood
but you wish it would.
You want your river view back.