Heat Wave
It's ninety eight degrees
in Jersey,
your hug felt limp,
sweaty,
and forced,
like the old air conditioner
that creaked to life
when you made us coffee,
looking into my eyes,
just to show
you could be sober,
at least for a New York minute,
letting me know
a happy future wasn't an option
and love was only real in movies,
but at least
you made me laugh.
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