Humid

 Do me a favor,

says weather,

and carry this anvil

made of steam

around with you today:

okay?

Creeks flow 

off my skin,

turning shirts

into wetlands.

After work, napping

in feverish circumstances, 

I dream of alligators

belching thunder.

Humidity and feet,

I think, make for a fine

Stilton stink. With

sour thoughts, 

I wait for cloud-towers

to collapse into rain:

one wet defeats another. 

hans ostrom 2020