Outside My Window
The house is boiling
and the windows are open,
thrown upwards in desperation,
in the hopes air might move
and steal a little of this heat
away from us.
You are outside,
and I know this because
thunk, thunk, thunk,
is the only breeze coming in.
You have relegated the bin
to foam cylinder thing holder,
while you and a mate
take swings
with samurai swords.
I stay in the office,
eyes on my computer.
I will clean up the mess later.
i can sense the heat rolling in waves off this poem, and the frustration but also the mundane. lovely job with piecing this all together to create such a solid scene.
Thank you, I’m glad to hear it reads that way.