And I'm too close to it, here in Cheyenne,
Though I'd be closer back at home. It's dry,
But lo, it burns like napalm when it can.
When waves of it are visible, and when
The wind forgets to blow, when e'en the birds
Tweet less, I think of all the times I've been
Prostrated by the summer time. No words
Can e'er convey my sunburn's pain; no balm
Can comfort it, save vinegar, which stings
As much as it stinks also. But I'm calm.
I'm almost home, where, among other things
A ceiling fan and lemonade await
If I can make it. If not, good-bye, Kate.