Pandemic Poem #35
In July, migraines make mornings start
before meditation and journaling.
The heat you went to bed with
is the heat you wake up with.
Sweat-slicked tendrils from dirty, sloppy ponytails
stay stuck to the back of your neck
for what feels like days.
Past the overpass, humidity’s haze
over downtown in the distance
never seems to lift
to reveal the life within.