“Is it hot enough for ya?”

The question;
as common as sweat
in sultry August
So often asked
(when it is clearly
too hot for anyone)

Heat stupored bees
refuse to budge
from their sticky perch
on the silken lily
to make room for your nose

The garden bares its secret pools
of brackish disquiet
an uneasy refuge
for languid birds with wilted wings
who float in brine

Too hot for even the statuary
Normally so composed
in their chiseled tranquillity
The breeze carries their stony sigh
(they hate the question, too)

A whiff of cologne
ruffles our hair
as the loud inquisitor
bounces past
in checkered bermudas

“Is it hot enough for ya?”