My feet are bellows,
Forcing furnace-fired air
From my instep through my shoes,
Heating socks and venting from cracks
In the black-waxed pair.

The rouge powder dirt
Plumes about tired trees,
White-gum bark flush with rosacea
As sweat pricks at the heat-rash
Playing house above my knees.

Across the rail lines
Warped and poorly drawn,
Shimmers dance and locusts crack
From leprechaun places
In the high school lawn.

My sagging backpack
Leaching all my resolve,
Its sweaty shroud kneels heavy
On a once-fresh shirt, praying
Pedagogical mass.

Year nine in Australia
And it’s 44 centigrade,
At least, that’s what I’ll remember
Getting to class in December,
As finer details fade.

Bryson Thomas