39 degrees
Today I could cook my breakfast
on the pavement, spitting there,
between the doc ends and
discarded cheap-lager cans. Save
on the energy bills, al fresco
cuisine – dine with the homeless. The
eggs would gaze up at me like that
woman’s breasts sweating in her
Lycra, skimpy top. The sun has
hit pasty limbs hanging from
cheap shorts, chests bared to
the air – Men thinking that is
what we women want to see, as
we point, and ponder unbaked
baguettes. 39 degrees and we
are pink cuts on a butcher’s slab.
Sarah Drury 