Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?
A sweltering Southern afternoon,
reeking of sunscreen and sweat?
The kind of day when the air hangs
like a towel, sopping from mid-morning wash.
Everything sticks to skin;
flesh is a sap-nest waiting to glue itself
to the nearest leather chair.
You’re an asphalt-scalding, hair-gone-flat, pool’s-not-cold, wishing-it-was-winter
kind of day.