By Marcel Toussaint | July 28th, 2010
In the Nineties Fahrenheit
Marcel Toussaint © 2010
The outside temp
is remotely read
on an astute device
that tells the in and out
temps, if liveable or not.
It read ninety-six!
Such a scary number
I had been told
not to go any place,
but my mailbox is six feet
across on the landing.
Slowly I opened my door,
then the glass one outside.
A swish of hot air stopped me.
There I was immobile
suffocating, my surprise,
my lungs refusing to breathe.
Closed tight got both doors.
The rest of the day was spent
inside not doing much
with no desire to defy
the barrier between
breathing and what is not.
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