Down back and arms, on brow and hands.
Though moving air is often cool,
Stagnant and hot must be our rule.
It seems as if an inner fire,
Unceasingly makes me perspire;
While twenty angels just dropped by,
And with their wings, they fan you dry.
Can you tell me, please why is it,
When you must move, exert a bit,
Though I can tell that you are tired,
There is no proof that you perspired?
And why, while I sit in my chair,
Stripped down to only underwear,
With cold iced tea here in my hand,
And air conditioned, ceiling fanned,
Though as relaxed as I can get --
Just watching TV makes me sweat?
Mick McKellar
July 2017
When I made notes for this poem in August 2003, long before my journey with leukemia, hot weather made me sweat and left me uncomfortable and irritable. It frustrated me that my wife always seemed to be chilled, covering up in 80 degree weather. This is no longer true, but the sentiments in the poem echo across the years...
Mick
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