Days of Blister
By Te’Kia Miller
These are the days of blister,
Stuck in a heat wave so mad and sinister.
We mere mortals cry in vain
From the sweltering of our skin.
The agony becomes unbearable
As the sensation of being cooked in an oven
Intensifies with every move we make.
Beads of sweat form and break on the distressed brows
And run rivers along the creek-bed of our necks.
Pools of perspiration congregate wherever they can
In desperate efforts to cool down
While sweated soggy clothes cling
And hang off like slimy algae.
The fire hydrant could only give so much relief
And the ice cream man ran out
Of his frosty treats,
Almost causing
A revolt in the heated streets.
The slushy machine at the local gas station
Has been on the fritz for weeks,
Fallen victim to these days of blister.
The local pool has been closed
For sanitation reasons
And the water park too.
So we run for shade under the trees
But still just as hot even under their leaves.
Hanging off the branches like sloths
We wonder, ‘how could Summer commit such high treason?’
Even the best A/Cs lost their fight,
Succumbing to the sizzling might
Of these days of blister.
So we are left with the rickety noise
Of stand-up fans on their last leg,
Slowly turning from side to side
As if to shake their heads in melancholy.
And at night, we listen to the hum drum sounds
Of their box fan companions
Circulating the heat into a warm breeze,
Conjuring nothing but a false sense of relief
In these days of blister.
2023.
Te'Kia Miller 