Iced coffee weather

Sweat beads on my water glass
On the kind of summer’s eve
Not even a thunderstorm could
Cool. From air conditioners fifteen
Stories up, moisture drips onto my
Forehead, startling me, reminding
Me of my rising electric bill. If I
Were a better poet, I would find a
New way to describe humidity,
But all I can think is: it’s August,
I am in the city, and it’s damn hot.
I am wading through invisible
Froth, as on the top of a latte.
If I stick out my tongue could I
Taste it? Could I slurp a path
To the end of my foamy street?
Tunnel my way to freedom through
This too-sweet topping of vapor?