Sixty Degrees

The air outside is a wet, hot wool,

the kind of heat that makes you feel full.

I pushed the heavy oak door with my weight,

escaping the sun and a lunch I already hate.

The room was a hollow, refrigerated box,

the smell of old stone and unwashed socks.

I stood in the aisle where the shadows are deep,

watching a tourist pretend they're asleep.

The sweat on my neck went stiff and thin,

like a cold sheet of paper against my skin.

I didn't come here to pray or to find a sign,

just to feel my heart slow down for a line.