Dog Days

The unit in the window died at noon.

It coughed a handful of grey slush

onto the rug and quit.

Now the room smells like a penny

pressed against a hot tongue.

The flypaper hangs from the light.

One of them is still moving,

a dry, frantic ticking

like a watch that’s losing time.

I’m lying on the linoleum

waiting for the sun to drop

behind the neighbor's brick wall.

The air is a wet coat

I can’t figure out how to take off.