Can we turn off the sun?
please, for five minutes, can we turn off that glowing, orange star?
it’s too deep into spring for unlaced sneakers,
and buttoned up collared shirts,
so let’s turn off the sun,
just for a few moments,

the day is late and the bus is later.

their will is strong but their thirsts are greater.

she kicks off her loose sneakers and places her
head on his shoulder,
the air is thick with dehydration,

turn off the sun, please

with their late spring hair
they sit, sweating in their heavy clothing
on the curbside of Fairfax Avenue,
his fingers clumsily slip into his pocket,
groping for his cellular phone
it’s hidden

deep, deep, deep within the denim
material,
the droplets
seep, seep, seep
like milk into cereal,

turn off the sun,
O gracious one,
god of heat exhaust and fret,
turn off the sun,
Please! soon be done,
or we’ll turn into puddles of sweat.

he finally gives up and lets his fingers rest,
his late spring feet damp as a used towel,
her red hair is gleaming in her nylon stockings,
her skirt hiked up above the knees
now that the bell has rung,

the day drags on until five o’ clock and the sun will stay on longer.
they thought they had the muscle to stand this but soon
the weather proves stronger,

…and slowly the cars roll down through the street,
and quickly they want
to cut off their feet…