Forcing my eyes open
and my body up
is always a chore.
My trick is to joke,
laughing at myself
and the beckoning sky.

But when the sun glares
and the rays are sticky,
I can't find the humor
in the sweat that
pours down my brow,
sizzling at such an early hour.

Eight hours later,
I return home,
breathing fire
with a tomato-red face, 
heavy with sweat 
like a walking river.

I run to the fan,
my summer girlfriend
Yet: no power.
I sit under
the running tap,
singing a love song
to the winter.