Sultry by ten

Sweet humid decay tinges the air
Along this coast where the sticky pine triumphs over the oak
And where the rim of Earth dissolves faster, simmering and hissing along the edges,
Like catfish frying.

Locusts in duet strum the only sound
As my feet indulge in a secret walk
Seduced to recall my own sun-baked southern childhood
By the sight of an iron red roadbed.

Hammering nails in strokes of four or five,
I recognized my father in myself;
An opaque man whose silence I begrudged.
When did I become proud to be like him?

Sweat drops trickle under my shirt
A surprise to one who rarely perspires.
My liquid body separated from the damp air
Only by the membrane of my clothes

So what a joyous and laughing release
When evening rains finally scoured the pavement,
Fulfilling the humid day’s unspoken promise
And we sighed deeply in contented fatigue.

“Its good you started early,” said Ms Johnson in housecoat
As she gazed down at us from her doorway,
Her unlined onyx face belying her grandbabies inside.
“When that sun get high,
Be sultry by ten.”

--Tim