I am proud of this poem's longest line.
At 6:30 pm, I don a red tank,
polyester, stiff with sweat-salt.
A 1992 Kokomo Relays white-mesh
It is 95-degrees.
Stepping outside is like squeezing
into a teenage girl's khakis.
Nuts pressed into your leg
tighter than a bad tattoo.
It's hotter than a rattlesnake's asshole.
Midway through the jog,
It begins to rain.
At first, scarce drops,
are hotter than my body.
"Fuck you," I say to the sky.
The sky is smarmy,
ignores my complaint,
slaps hot, stinging beads of water
down on me at random.
I wonder if, in the stratosphere,
birds are pissing on me.
Do birds piss?
When the rain hits the pavement,
yards in-front of a charging city bus,
it sizzles in petroleum puddles,
I can smell its foul steam.
Like barbecue smoked in gasoline.