the sun is a nag. it's giving me big, rolly sweat beads the size of midday headaches.
i feel like taking off my shirt and i don't care if i'm in an uncovered bus stop swarming with fanning ladies, their grannie butts spilling out of their calico sundresses.
i don't give a damn. why should i? the paunchy hotdog vendor has already let go of his damp tank top. i don't give a damn if the sandal-wearing lady beside me, her legs freshly salon waxed, gives me the eye if i bare my pale pigeon chest, an errant hair insistent on growing out of my left areola.
in my head, i only hear the rant of the sun telling me over and over to bare my torso, healthy, too healthy, in fact, refusing to let my closeted abs to show off.
i stand here unprotected under the sun, listening to it's advice to be free and distinguished now before this day forgets about me.
