by Con Chapman
It's hot, I know, and
there are places you'd rather be;
the beach for one, same with me,
and with you I would go.
But we are stuck here, my dear; me
in the front and you in the back row
while before us drones the regional
manager, about moving product.
I see you check your pits, your nose
tilted downwards like a duck plucking
at its pin feathers. It's the weather,
and we're all sweating, same as you.
There are risks to sleeveless dresses
in the heat; yes, they help you
stay cool, but by ventilation, and so
your musky fragrance is a revelation.
You hope you don't offend, but Lord,
woman—look at these men! The thought
of your sweat is the furthest thing
from their minds: “Beer, tube, ballgame—
Ugh!” they would grunt if they could.
So let us go, in our minds' eyes, to a
place that is cool; a dark and shady grove
is best, and we'll remove that summer dress.
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