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I woke up crushed, as if I’d spent the night being run over
by an invisible steamroller.
The heat was already crushing me before I even opened my eyes,
in a suffocating wave, with a stopped fan deconditioning the air,
which seemed to invade the room with hostile intentions.
I felt so absurdly heavy that I had to activate the SIC,
my trusty Self-Imaginary Crane, to hoist myself out of bed
with as much dignity as possible.
The operation was slow, almost ceremonial: an invisible arm lifted me,
spun me around the axis of laziness, and deposited me with millimeter precision
before the coffee pot, that sacred altar of difficult mornings.
The first sip was like an existential unlocking.
I wasn’t quite human yet, but I already felt less like an object.
42ยบ Celsius, wind chill: Steakhouse from Hell.
Sooooooo damn good.
I need a SIC. You rock, PAR.
Thanks, my dear, big kiss for you.
๐
Windchill Steak House from Hell. Love it. Damn, that is hot, and it’s oppressive. Love this;))
Thanks, dear, I appreciate you.
Brilliantly penned, PAR. Excellent write my friend, simply amazing as always. You never disappoint brother. Appreciate you.
Damian
Thank you, Damian, I try not to disappoint.
Several great visuals included within this write, makes it NYC size. I love the details.
Living in central Florida, I get the heat/humidity double whammy. But, theres always some water nearby if I wanna cool off. I guess thats a plus. LOL
I am happy to see you here and having your comments.
The details & description you create in this poem makes me feel as though I’m there. Magnificent!
Hey, Keith, I have a mania of trying to take my friends with me through my paths and ways. Big hug!