Blows harsh across the asphalt and the grass
Is parched. Three-thirty; eighty-five degrees
And I can't get myself up off my ass.
My head aches just to look out windows, and
It's only June as yet. In some despair,
Remembering my thoughts, I understand:
I made the wrong choice back in April. There
Were still spots on the graveyard shift. I chose
These normal hours, must endure the heat
And dust both ways on my bike, unlike those
Who've made the cool of evening their beat.
Next summer, note to self; the wee small hours
Are kinder when one's of limited pow'rs.