Iron Lung

My window shut, blocking Summer’s fierce gaze and brown haze from distant flaming timbers. One machine cools the room, then my cats and I may nap. Another, like a Vegas magician, pulls gallons of water from the air we breathe. My window shut, glazed by Winter’s cruel lick, outside sheets of ice and broken branches. Furnace air and a space heater blanket us with dry heat. Eyes itch, hands and heels crack, another device weaves soothing water into the air we breathe. I met a man, years ago, who lived inside an iron lung. It did the work of breathing for him. His hapless head stuck out one end of what seemed a metal casket on wheels. With cheeky laughter, he read everything and used his mouth to write. I crack open my window. (published in “Boats Against the Current”, 2023)