In Which I Try Not To Fry

So cloudless, clear, with nothing but contrails
To blemish all that blue -- it's fine, but fierce.
A searing sun at altitude ne'er fails
To pin me to the pavement. How the pierce
Of rays so pitiless doth wound; I wince
To think of it, well knowing that the thick
And sticky layer of sunscreen I've long since
Applied will not avail me much. I kick
And pedal powerfully for cover. Can
I make it much more quickly to the shade
Than I would were it raining? I don't tan
But burn, quite badly; it does not soon fade,
The pain or redness. Pale and weak am I,
Who scuttles, scared, beneath the scorching sky.