The thermometer reads ninety-seven indoors,

and I am trying to remember

how to cool a house. Already too late

to close windows, trap last night’s breeze

in each room. So I resort to pulling blinds,

drink hot tea infused with mint.

The cats curl in the sink and absorb

the porcelain cool. Nothing to do but sleep.

When I was young our neighbor

would spray his roof with water,

saturate each shingle. And it worked.

The insides chilled as we escaped downstairs

to watch each other undress,

then sprawl on the floor,

the length of our bodies touching

as fans oscillated across our skin.

But here we are in a drought—

seven years lack of water despite green lawns.

Seven years of dust. And the ground cracks,

and the boys walk shirtless through town,

and plants wilt against the clay.