171. MY AUGUST FACE

MY AUGUST FACE
It's not the time of year for heat; the pipes have been
cool for months, the Summer sky bristles with its own
torpid air. It's an August face, in another sort of heat
I must wear - sweat, sunburn, a white spot
where the wristwatch was. Funny, all that is.
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In the same way once the roundness of the wheel
must have startled early man, I'm learning new
things by being - simply that. Once I factor
in the complications, it's all a pretty situation,
or maybe, bet. The odds are in my favor.
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Outside, the sweaty crowd murmurs.
I watch them and imagine, in Winter,
all that breath steaming out of their
mouths into the cold, cold air.
Would they know the difference?
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Scarves. Mufflers.
Bathing suits. Tumblers.
Water. Ice.
Ice. water.
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The transformations of ordinary things.