by Richard Schiffman
If sweat were gold, I’ve lost millions.
If hell were cold, I’d be in heaven.
If heat were meat, I’d feed the world.
If hot were smart, this day’s a bloody genius.
Robin redbreasts with lolling tongues
are begging for the spare change of rain.
Today even the fire ants are panting like puppies.
The dog days of summer, they whimper, they drool.
Pigeons in heat spontaneously combusting,
bridges diving like ducks into rivers,
green leaves boiling and bubbling from trees,
trees hawking their shade to the highest bidder.
Still, there is something in me that loves a flame.
That burns baby burns complacency’s ghetto.
Whose body is grease for its very own pyre.
Whose soul is on fire like a summer in Georgia.
Some seasons are mild, some seasons are fiery
If June kissed the moon, the moon would go loony.
If July were a stud, every mare would come screaming.
When mid-August simmers, the whole world is soup.
Today only mad dogs and Englishmen are strolling.
And possibly some poets and wandering monks.
Fervid souls, assorted fools. We know who we are.
We know what we’re up to.
Richard Schiffman, based in New York City, is an environmental reporter, poet, and author of two biographies. His poems have appeared on the BBC and on NPR as well as in the Alaska Quarterly, the New Ohio Review, The Christian Science Monitor, The New York Times, Writer’s Almanac, This American Life in Poetry, Verse Daily, and other publications. His first poetry collection What the Dust Doesn't Know was published in 2017 by Salmon Poetry.