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It is Sunday | It is Hot | Poem

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It is Sunday and it is hot.
Another of those long summer days,
humidity and haze and the eastern seaboard
is languid, sublime, the all of us hardly moving.
We take to the shade of our high-peeked rooms,
windows fitted with double fans and silver-boxed
air-conditioners that take in wet air and spit it back
crisp and cool: breathable, bearable.

It is Sunday and it is hot.
We are listening to Bob Dylan and watching
Eat the Document and wishing we could know
for just one moment what it is to be him, though
I imagine it is like being anybody, only not quite.

It is Sunday and it is hot.
I put on my dark Ray Bans, the same ones as Dylan,
the ones the doctor tells me tells me I can even wear
indoors because I am epileptic and they serve a medical purpose
and therefore are not queer, by this I mean, totally effected.

It is Sunday and it is hot.
We are close, entwined, breathing in
the scent of skin and I know this is how
it begins, each of us waiting for the second-hand
tic when it is right to make the first move,
to throw the first hallowed kiss.

It is Sunday and it is hot.
We make love and I make all the noises
while, otherwise, the neighborhood is silent
and in this moment now we have each other.
We are in love: we are married and it is good.
It is Sunday, not Monday.
Let’s not think of morning yet.

It is Sunday it is hot.
I have all that I need.


sadi ranson-polizzotti

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