The Summertime Blues, or Blahs -- a.k.a. I Hate Summer

I really don't like summer. I don't like heat. I hate sweating, or "perspiring" -- the word my grandmother insisted I use instead of "sweating." ("Men perspire and women glow." Urgh.) I like being off school, the free time, the lazy resting and occasional swimming. But I really, really don't like summer. I think the poem makes it obvious through the very delicate use of hyperbole.

The Dreaded Season

Summer treads heavily,
breathing hot threats
down the back of my neck.
Wiping sweat from my face,
I groan as searing droplets
form against my will across
my arms, my neck, my chest.

Everywhere I go,
the earthy stench
of perspiring bodies
surrounds me.
I draw my sweat-stiffened hair
into a crooked ponytail,
sealing it flatly
against my skull and
blessedly off my neck.

When driving to the beach
my thighs glue themselves
to the vinyl seat of the car.
Windows rolled down,
hot gusts toss my hair wildly as
we travel the mirages of freeway.

In July and August
thunderheads sprawl
over the mountains,
pregnant with frustrated tears
which hiss as they strike
the steaming asphalt.
The temperature drops
twenty degrees in ten minutes.
I drag in cleansing gulps
of tangy-cool air,
rain-scented.

Too soon the sun returns,
blazing between purple-gray clouds --
blinding, parching, scorching.
Each afternoon I burn at the stake,
praying for the sun to slip below the horizon,
praying for autumn to rescue me.

(c) 2009 Susanne Barrett