One Hot July Morning
By Don Iannone

White-hot July sun drops beat
like a heavy rain of fire bricks
on the flower garden
nestled along the white picket fence.
Normally spry orange day lilies and passion pink wild roses
droop for cover
as Monsieur Soleil tightens his grip
on all in his path.
The Huck Finn-looking young lad next door
sits bentover, like a limp rag, in the steamy grass
picking his dirty toes in silence.
Even the red-throated hummingbird's wings
are quiet and motionless
sensing the danger of spontaneous combustion
with the slightest movement.
Waves of oppressively hot air
waft into the open kitchen window
crushing my usual desire for morning coffee
or anything short of a freezing-cold lime popsicle.
I think only of standing naked for hours in a cold shower.