This heat makes my pores perspire,
   makes my skin itch
There’s not enough water to quench
  my internal thirst
Basking or baking—
bubbling, irritated flesh,
deliciously inviting
minuscule beasts to feast upon
The sun beats me,
whacking me with its rays
  melting for half a day’s pay
I’ll be a puddle on the floor
swimming through cracks in
the cement. Work is a
"tradition" I often lament