It is one-hundred-and-two and we have nothing to do.
The heat pales a blue sky. The drought saps
all that was green.

Birds flock to the feeders and bathe in their bath.
A dozen varieties at various times fly in and fly out
as we lazily count.

One-hundred-and-one and we move to the front as
the porch swing squeaks coming forth and going back—
my head on a pillow, my legs on his lap.
We read poetry for we need something to do.

I read Collins' Shoveling Snow with Buddha. We sip
cool lime water and the ice melts as he reads Seibles'
The Ballad of Sadie Lababe, "cause Sadie moved like water poured.”

It is one-hundred degrees—a sultry shift into evening. We
slip inside and having nothing else to do, slice a baguette,
aged Gouda, cucumber, tomato and a sweet Colorado peach.

We toast chilled cheers of summer wine and stream
Doc Martin for a meandering British tale
about the seaside village of Portwenn that ends
in a cliff hanger promising to be resolved in Part II.

The temperature drops to ninety-nine and we saunter out where
he waters window boxes and I hear him sing, "You can't always
get what you want" as Zoe, the dog, takes me for a walk around
the block slowly, her tongue hanging out, her ears flopping in.

We celebrate ninety-eight on the steps with raspberry sodas and
talk about Monday above the din of cicadas. Together, in humid air,
our hearts are quiet and our bodies full as we go inside nudging
the AC down and head for bed as Zoe follows behind, up the stairs.