Fever
by William Wilde
The paving on the street outside is black gum, the residential yards are miasmic tangles. In the news, an arsonist sets fires somewhere, perversely.
That old fool from down the block is out there again to bathe in the heat. He exposes wrinkled-turtle skin with white hair tufts and raises pearly eyes.
It reminds him of the heat in his childhood, he says. He’s been waiting a long time for a good summer like this to come again.
We shout ridicule at his senile delusion, but our minds are soon baking, driving us back inside to shelter.
Even after the sun goes down, the night air is limp steam in our open house windows. People try to sleep, but it’s too bright because the old fool sits on his porch and his bones still glow like neon tubes from all the heat he’s drunk in that day. It’s the same business with him every night.
We mutter the usual curses, of course, and turn our faces into our pillows, knowing it will be just as unbearable tomorrow.