Low Pressure

The humidity has locked me in.

I have to use my heel against the frame

to pop the wood, a sound like a bone

snapping back into place.

Outside, the sky is the color of a fresh bruise.

The neighbor’s green plastic chair

skitters across the asphalt,

hollow and frantic.

Then the first drop hits the road.

The smell of hot tar and wet dust

comes up through the screen,

filling the room with the scent of a warning.