Tower Hill

and the light comes in from the West,
comes in from the glass roof -
through the clear and shining ceiling
begging me to break it.

and it's warm,
uncomfortably warm,
flushed cheeks and shaking fingers
trying desperately to hold a fine line
somehow manage legible scrawl.

It was beautiful artwork outside,
hanging on an otherwise innocent wall -
a white, untouched panel.

Climbing roses - pink and dying on an interior brick face.

But it's too warm for me.
I must be flushed, I feel it.
I feel the heat - the choking closeness of the chewy air.

How inconspicuous can I hope to be -
slumped over in a top that insists it is low-cut,
a lap full of notebook.

Perhaps I made an error in judgement.

Perhaps I need a nap.
How will I make the drive home?
If I am exhausted now -
what can I possibly hope for?

It's breezy now,
and I can breathe.