Heat

The milk in cafés sours in the heat
And tyres of traffic whine
On baking roads, until the melt-wax
Sky implodes
 
Snap-lock children’s blocks build
Storey upon storey into high-rise suites
Of air-con — amusing
In siesta time, but just a dream
 
I turn the fan on high
Then swallow it, and still the parch
Of weather pounds — sweat-sheen temples
And palms too damp for odes
 
The poem engages with a new
Reality, beyond this table talk and hangdog
Villanelles, climbing out the window
As though it had some place to go
 
Estill Pollock

If you have any thoughts about this poem,  Estill Pollock would be pleased to hear them