Tonight's Poet Corner: Humidity

Humidity
by Belinda Rodde

The rest of the evening, after the funeral,
is spent at Old Johnson's Pub,
drinking hard cider and chocolate stout,
fighting off the late August heat that sticks
to our skin even after the sun sets,
and reminiscing about the days we got high
on our old school's playground, and drunk
on the patio of Mister Sipher's condemned house,
his cracked white eyes gleaming from between
the slats of his shuttered windows.

I try to pick up the tab, but my brother
snatches the bill before I can even speak.
His signature is sloppy, almost amateur. Usually
his autograph is so crisp, so formal, even
when he has to sign dozens of copies of his newest
book at the conventions and stores. He wipes
his nose, but he can't stop a bit of water landing
right where he dotted the i of his last name.

Jennifer is waiting outside for us, smoking
a cigar that's fatter than her thumb, her hair
still greasy from both the humidity
and the pomade that she hurriedly slicked
across her head on her way to the church. She worked
a shift at the car shop that ended just ten minutes
before the organist played the first hymn. She says
she can't get my father's gray face out of her
mind, so she's coping with a Cuban.

My brother asks where to now. I suggest
the playground, but none of us have weed,
and the buzz from the alcohol is already starting
to wear off. We get into my old station wagon,
but I can't bring myself to rev it up. The steering
wheel is slippery against my fingers. My father's voice
suddenly echoes in my ears. He reminds me to pump
the brake, and tells me how to turn on the headlights
and the radio, ten years ago, when I first learned
to drive without having a panic attack
as we ripped through downtown.

Dad was broader and less shriveled up back then,
his tresses still thick and brown. A cigarette
nearly disappeared between his monstrous teeth.
His smile made me shiver. The rain starts
to hit the hood of my car. Behind me,

Jennifer rolls down the window and throws
the stump of her stogie into the summer
monsoon. My brother makes a noise like
he's choking on his own spit. I sink into the vinyl
of my seat, hot and uncomfortable, while
my sweat mingles with my oncoming tears.