Scorching is what it is, 105 this afternoon—
no biggie to desert dwellers basking
in 118—but most humans were not made

for such stupid hot temperatures.
And we’re getting hotter, thanks to
hotheads boiling over, which makes

my internal thermometer rise. To cool
down, I slip my feet into old flip-flops
that summer by the back door. I head

straight for the hose, remembering
long-gone days of filling the blow-up pool
for small ones who are now bona fide

grownups with their own kiddie pools
in their own yards. And before that, hot
afternoons at the high school pool,

climbing down from the lifeguard
tower to dunk myself, hat and sunglasses
and zinc oxide’d nose and all, then

hoisting myself up on the concrete lip
of the huge tank, emerging again into
the overhead sun while keeping an eye

on the gyrations of teenage boys off
the high dive. And now, hose in hand,
I do what we did at the pool—

spray my feet that practically steam
when drops hit them—before
training the stream on the thirsty souls

on my deck, eager for dampness to reach
their little blooming faces, their leaves
only slightly droopy. I swear I hear

their “ahhh”s—or maybe those
are mine—when the blessing of water
hits their rooty feet, just before

I squirt my own again.