Seventyfour degrees is a swamp

Seventy-four degrees is a swamp.

I can feel the air sitting on my skin

like a damp wool coat.

The humidifier is down there wheezing,

a red light blinking 'empty'

like a warning signal on a lifeboat.

Then I saw it—a strip of Scotch tape,

clear and smug across the dial.

A transparent border patrol

guarding a setting I didn't choose,

keeping the heat locked in

while I sweat through another night.