John Rutherford
July 23, 2023
Ninety degrees at eight PM,
and I’m taking out the trash,
the window’s slick with condensation,
the cats are hiding in the bath.
I wear long sleeves year-round,
thought I was used to Texas heat,
but ninety degrees at eight PM
has really got me beat.
I’m thirty-one and can’t remember
a summer hot as this, grass brown
and dead in July, even before the 5th,
ninety degrees at eight PM, what gives?
I lug the bags out to the dumpster,
the moon-glow shining off the creek,
a kingfisher takes his dinner, sweat beads on my cheek,
ninety degrees at eight PM, ain’t this a treat?
John Rutherford works in the English Department at Lamar University. His work can be found in the Concho River Review and The Basilisk Tree.
