Heatwave

 Welcome to The Spot Writers. The prompt for this cycle is “heatwave.”

Cathy’s writings are found in numerous print and online publications. She writes all genres but invariably veers toward the dark—so much so her late mother once asked, “Can’t you write anything happy?” (She can!)

Check out www.writingwicket.wordpress.com for further information on her works.

 

 

Heatwave

by Melvin MacDonald*

 

 “Marie,” Melvin said, when his wife walked into the room, “remember that poem I wrote a couple of years ago?”

“Hmm, can’t say I do.”

Before Melvin could reply, she added, “Oh, do you mean that Valentine’s Day poem?”

“That’s it, Marie.”

“Mel, that poem was atrocious.”

He put on his best pretend-pout face. “But it was written with love. From me to you.”

His wife’s face whitened.

Ha, he thought. Now she feels bad.

“I gotta finish the laundry,” she said, slinking out of the room.

Melvin went into the den and sat at the desk. He pulled up Google docs and stared at the blank screen. Is this what writer’s block feels like? And why was he here? To add more misery to his already failed poetry attempts? He’d written several over the past few years, most of which he hadn’t shared with anyone. The few he had shared hadn’t gone over well.

He swiped at his forehead. “Gah, really wish we had air-conditioning,” he muttered. The heatwave was getting to him. Thirty-plus Celsius temps were beyond his comfort level.

Hmm, a poem about the heat would be apropos!

And then he had a brainstorm...

 

***

 

“Hey, Marie, where are you?” He raced out of the den like a madman. “Where the heck are you?”

And then he saw her, sauntering into the kitchen from the deck.

“Melvin, what in the world! Why are you screeching like that?”

“Marie! Marie, listen to this. It’s a poem I just wrote. I really think you’ll like it.”

“I thought you’d given up on poetry.”

“I never said that!”

“Well, your other renditions weren’t so wonderful.”

“But this one is. Listen.”

He clutched the paper the printer had spewed out. His best poem ever. Marie would be so amazed—stunned would be more like it.

“It’s called ‘Heatwave.’ Here, listen up...

 

 

“I hate the heat—it makes me sweat.

The sun beats down upon my weary head,

And I long for cool relief but haven’t yet

Found respite from the blazing summer threat.

My clothes cling to my damp frame.

I hate the heat—it makes me sweat.

I dream of snow-capped mountains set

Against a sky of endless blue instead

Of faces flushed with red, but haven’t yet

Escaped this stifling prison where I’m met

With waves of scorching air that suffocate.

I hate the heat—it makes me sweat.

I pray for rain to fall without regret

To cleanse away this oppressive flame

But haven’t found relief as of yet,

So I suffer through each hot day,

Counting down until the season's end.

I hate the heat—it makes me sweat—

But cooler days will come again.

 

 

“So, what do you think, Marie?”

For the first time, his wife was speechless. Well, he remembered other times she’d been stunned, too, but this time was different. She was totally stunned. Totally.

Her eyes were wide with amazement. “Really, you wrote that?”

“I did.”

“I—I don’t know what to say. That was quite excellent.”

“I know, right?” He smiled. She’d never clue in.

 

***

 

*Melvin MacDonald (he’s not much of a poet but is sure a great liar.)

 

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