a blistering sun on the neck
as I pull weeds in the baking garden.
Depression is cold, she replied,
a fat slush droplet down my collar
as I huddle, umbrella-less, waiting for the bus.
Depression is hot, she said,
the touch of the grill rack
as I flip burgers over flame.
Depression is cold, she replied,
blue-tipped toes in icy sheets
as I shiver by the drafty window.
Depression is hot, she said,
itchy sweat droplets coursing down my legs and back
as I sit in the stifling church, hellfire brimming in my head.
Depression is cold, she replied,
numb fingers fumbling
as I lose a mitten in the drift.
Well, she said,
depression is not, she agreed,
warm.
