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 tha