Some fortune- tellers say
the globe is warming
to a dangerous degree, and we,
like Lucifer who fell from grace,
are the creators of a coming hell.
There never was a time when we
were angels, even fallen ones,
nor is ours the power
to command the sun.
Long memories have fondness for
comparing summers, finding
this year’s dog days nothing like
the miseries of long ago.
They’re just as bad as fortune -tellers
only they look through the other end.
“Back in my day…” they say
to anyone who’ll listen.
I am much too busy
wiping hairline sweat before
the salt comes streaming down
to fog my glasses, sting my eyes.
If it were not so hot I’d be amused
by these predictors and rememberers
but as it is, I do not care.
I’m much too busy holding up
a world of heavy air.