come high summertime when all the bronzed skinny girls make you insane
as they crimp and crush and cough and coo at colicky kids two rows away
and you try and try to imagine a cool, salty breeze rolling over the bay,
rustling your matted mane and quenching your thirst
never mind that you have to boil the water first.
Do. Not. Think. About. Boiling.
You are already boiling,
coiling like a worm in the sun,
soiling your office clothes with dirt and stink.
Perhaps one day you will become a nun
and never have to worry about commutes,
only God's work and what must be done.
There is no Subway at the monastery.
Mary, Mary, have you found the verse yet?