My proudest heritage
is the only inheritance
that I have not yet to claim:
melting feet on crispy sidewalks
and toes wiggling on the bottoms of
pimply swimming pools.
Of all months, the month of my birth
has an inclination to imprint on you
the mark of a brutal sun,
but surely, that moment when
a halo of sweat
can finally be exchanged for
the miracle of air conditioning
is worshipped just as much
as every sweltering second is
so fervently detested.
Eventually, even foam fans
attached to plastic water bottles
could not quench a burning desire
for a softer sun and
a more ambitious breeze, and
September will always find me
longing to be caught.
But seasons later, as
I hunch my back
again the sneering winds of February,
I will clutch my coat all the tighter
and silently request
a warmer breeze
to carry me home,
to August.