Hot, Cold, Warm

Depression is hot, she said,
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.