Slice of Summer

Now I've done it.

In today's poem I've used a made-up word to describe what I think is going on.

I was going to say that I made it up out of thin air, but I think thick air would be more like it ... thick, moisture-laden summer air, so heavy with dampness that it feels like layer-upon-layer of water bearing down on us.

There's a related ... real word ... that has something to do with water and a cavity created in it.

I pictured the fan as doing something similar to that with the heavy summer air. So, not finding a suitable word in my handy-dandy dictionary, I made up one.

It's like grabbing a tool ... one not really intended for the task at hand ... and making it serve a different function.

And the photo which accompanies today's entry?

Oh, that's a sculpture of a giant ant on the lawn of Cox Arboretum, a local favorite walking place. The sculpture is gone now, but there are lots of other things to see, and lots of shady places in the summer, to sit and just enjoy the view.

I thought it was interesting, the relationship of the size of the ant and the car in the background.

But enough of that. The poem:

SLICE OF SUMMER

The cavitating fan,

patiently oscillating,

slicing the air,

lets it fall

like cold bacon

across the griddle

of my overheating

horizontal body.

© 1996

(originally published in Anterior Poetry Monthly)

***

Today's word: cavitating

Afterthoughts ... in response to your comments:

You've got it, Featheredpines ... two strips of cavitated bacon, comin' right up. Oh, I remember those movie houses, too ... at least the one in my hometown ... the Ritz ... coolest place in town on a hot summer afternoon or evening ... unless the fans stopped operating ...