cold front
sixty-three degree morning
in july
which for new york city
feels like living in alaska
i go out
hungover on wine
and sick of stomach
but feel like gold
the minute the breeze hits me
watch the others go huddling by
in small coats
the dumb girls
in their sundresses in sandals
teeth chattering
almost crying
the old bat who barks at me
feels like winter out here!
all of these sour lumps of flesh
frowning
and waiting on the next ninety degree day
so that they
can sit indoors
with their air conditioners on
killing the earth
telling everyone
how beautiful it is
outside.
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