As if some ashen ogre had come squatting on me, pressing
My whole being between humid buttocks, I endure a third
Straight day of sunless sky. It's hard to breathe beneath
These cheeks, but it was even worse before, when sunlight
Seared. It seemed as if the ogre'd trained a glass on me,
As children do on helpless ants. I suppose I'll take
The buttocks over being burnt to death, but I would like
Another option, like some cleansing rain.