It’s very hot today. I am begging for a storm to come along to rinse down Honduras. I’m being careful for what I wish for and not hoping for anything hurricane size, but it’s like a constant greenhouse, relentlessly spanking us with its heat. There’s no breeze and the humidity is hanging in the air. If you’re not in a room with air conditioning or a fan, you’re going to struggle, and if you have no water, you’re a fool.
I played the fool today. I had to walk across the Nuestros Pequeños Hermanos ranch without a bottle of some trusted H2O and I was almost seeing double on arrival of my destination. I knocked five cups of water then walked back and needed five more. My shirt was stained with sweat and I was talking gibberish, and I guess I still am in this blog post.
I will continue this gibberish in the shape of a poem made up of Limerick verses. You might think I’ve lost my mind. Maybe I have. Maybe you have. Maybe you will have reading this poem.
I’ve Turned Into a Puddle
Turned into liquid form,
This wasn’t the shape I was born,
I used to have legs,
To walk me to Gregg’s*,
Now the heat’s got me seeing a unicorn.
I used to dream of living in a hot place,
Now I walk around with a permanent red face,
Floored and befuddled,
I’ve turned into a puddle,
I’m no longer part of the human race.
I could be used to put out a fire,
Or be the tears of a crier,
I could be a drop in the sea,
But I’m sure you’d agree
That this isn’t a life to aspire.
*A pastry and sandwich chain in the UK