Bad Furniture

— for The Klute

I’m alone with my furniture early on
The forecast heat of the day ahead
already barging through my windows
even with the shades down

Screw July I say as I read about
the death of a friend
who maybe was helped to death
by heat as he hiked the desert

as if his too-often torn up heart
wouldn’t have done the job 
well-enough over time — the big finger
of Something Bigger always pressing him

to hike in the desert in July
or dive upon sharks every time of year
or tease Nazis and their friends
with a funny sharp tooth of his own

in rooms where they laughed and said
this cat’s no poet even as he poemed them
back into their holes muttering
why the long coat year round no matter the weather 

Screw July for this news and his passing
and this heat that won’t stop crashing through
windows and walls and borders and these hot tears
None of my furniture offers any comfort today