Underneath

Cruel summer. Miserly summer. All steaming drizzle and sodden heat. Mosquitoes breeding in muddy puddles. There aren't enough baths in the world to wash away this malaise.

There's nothing to do but wheeze and cough and think about all the work left undone. The air is thick with both disease and disgrace and it's a toss-up as to which is more suffocating.

My ideas wither under that corrosive dripdripdrip, the one you think I don't notice. 

My thoughts are toxic condensation, collecting beneath an August that never really came.