2019
It is hot outside and horrible,
worse in Phoenix, I learn on the radio,
driving my air-conditioned car
off the congested, potholed road,
into the gym’s tight parking space
where I park, pause, prepare
to open the car door—
to get smacked by heat
from surrounding asphalt,
blinded by bright glare,
burned, as I grasp
the metal railing
and mount the stairs.
Inside the gym, I walk
the track, cautiously circle
under an always-dripping-
and-opened-for-repair ceiling.
I think about Henny Penny.
The sky may be falling,
here too—everywhere—air
has grown dangerous.
I pass the water cooler—repeatedly—
thoughts pour out—poisonous
water; Flint, Michigan; drowning;
the Mediterranean;
and climate change.
I think infrastructure,
heat, concrete.