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Hot Afternoons
March 25, 2019
The sun beats down like a ton of bricks.
The Black metal bench burns like a hot skillet.
You would get up if your legs could hold you.
The air is thick with humidity.
You can hardly breathe,
heavy air.
Overgrown vegetation streams in the hot sun.
It smells of cooked carrots.
You sit there,
Waiting.
For the carrots to finish.
For a moment you are relieved.
Thinking of eating cooked carrots as a kid.
All you can think of is water
But none is to be found.
© Anonymous
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This poem is about a hot summer day