by Glen Martin Fitch
It's not the heat.
It's my humidity.
Some days on every thing
we disagree.
Beneath your stormy lids
sharp glances let off jabs.
I hope a rumbling
of regret will roll. I count.
But when you cry,
I flee in place.
You rain it out
and then you're free.
I envy you.
You'll talk or leave it be.
Yet all feels wet to me.
I brood.
I fret.
It's not the heat.
I'm built to take it.
And I guarantee in love
there will be tension.
I foresee more strife.
And so I compromise.
I sweat.
It's me.
I can't release yet won't forget
My uncried tears.
It's my humidity.
It's not the heat.
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ABOUT THE POET ~
Glen Fitch is a 16th Century poet lost in the 21st Century. Born near Niagara Falls, educated in the Catskills, thirty years on the Monterey Bay he now lives in Palm Springs. Retail not academics has paid the bills. Someday he will finish Spenser's "The Fairie Queene."
Last updated August 23, 2011