94, Feels Like 105.

The air is so damp it makes every living thing sweat.
And even the unliving have started to condensate and percolate.
I notice my body's moisture escape without my permission, without my assistance.
Its crawling on my thighs and tumbling past my knees and slipping down my calves.
And now my feet are sliding on the soles of my shoes and sticking to the tongues.

My brows are starting to fill with little drops of brine,
Held momentarily in place, waiting to attack my lashes and sting my eyes.

Theres moisture hitting my head from inside and out
And my hair has matted together in great clumps of stringy curls.
I think it must look like something off a corpse, all misshapen and wet
Like I've just lost a fight for my life, but really I'm only standing on the porch

The air is so thick you could cut it with a knife.
But my body is not sharp, it is soft and round and so I bludgeon the atmosphere.
I elbow my way through the crowd of gray hazy heat to the refuge in the driveway.
To the little steel can of freon and mobilized air.
Now my lips freeze and my fingers go numb from the constant blasting
But at least my external body temperature is leveling and my sweat glands are sleeping

I swear the air never tried to choke me when I was a kid
I never had to fight through the buttery summer heat then.
I remember being hot, dry and hot and sticky with play and dust.
I remember the breeze down by the creek and the sharp sun in the front lawn.
But I never remember the global humidifier surrounding my house, making everything look half cooked.
We could fry eggs on the asphalt then, now the only items on the menu are poached.