the summer of 63

there's a break

in the rain.

a short spell of almost

sunlight.

the steam rises off the street,

we wipe

our brows,

our necks.

we shake our heads and

collectively say,

it's hot out.

but it's not like it was

in 63

says grandma,

and nobody confronts

her on her memory,

it's not worth

it to disagree.