(untitled #49) Poem by bob barci

Midnight
in the sweltering home
of a poet on Long Island.
Even a fan set on high
does not help.
If there is a breeze,
it is not coming through the open window.
Clad only in thin, light weight boxer shorts,
the Long Island poet,
heads out to the porch
in search of a cool evening breeze
and possibly a poem.
He finds the breeze.
But, while sitting on the metal chair,
this poet becomes totally engrossed
by the coolness.
He marvels at the stillness,
the quietness, and the occasional passing car,
and soon forgets his search for a poem.
This poem will be lived
instead of written down.