By Simon Barget
2 till four.
Clouds hang back and brain is dead.
Real feel, 106.
I'll prick my lips with cocktail sticks to check that I'm alive.
This mute and frigid air. This stupid swamp.
Sits dead-weight on my throat and turns my blood to sludge.
I dare not move.
Just wait it out with the trees for the slightest whiff of breeze.
The cat turned in hours ago, spread-eagled on the deck.
My balls pressed flat to my thighs.
I think I'll take a ride out on the bike.
In 7-Eleven it's below 65.