what a summer it's been

I lie
awake in the puddle
of blue sheets,
a night time pond of
uncertainty.
the heat
is unbearable. the fan
over head
spins slowly,
the hour hand
hardly
moves.
there is the glow
of red
numbers on the clock.
why so many clocks?
I can hardly breathe.
the hum
of the house,
creaks with its
bones
of wood and plaster,
cold sweating pipes,
the glass panes
trickle with
condensation. let's not
call them tears, okay?
people have
died in this room,
but it's too
soon for that.
what a summer it's been,
if i see you on the street,
don't ask, i won't
give you a straight answer,
and i certainly
when it's over won't
look back.