High of 90 today doesn’t seem much
to folks from Mumbai, and till now
I’ve been fine sitting under a fan after
a run or an hour in the garden.

But my More-Rugged-Than-I lover
is away and the thermostat looks
at me, it’s blinking eye a modern-day
Nicean icon. Behind it, the gods

of “ahhhhh, that feels nice” beckon
like an indulgence. And isn’t that the mantra,
“If it feels good then fuck
the consequences, forget about

a world stewed in its own
juice. Don’t even think that
my “ahhhh” is bought with
fire and ash

and a sentient sea that says
“Fuck it,” too, and makes plans
to wipe the land clean
and start over.