Believe me, I get it
You turned all your jeans into jorts
And now you’re worried

What were you thinking and what will people think?
You were so certain all the seasons were gone
But you still believed in summer

We’ve conditioned the air to turn
Us all into a gross & sweaty tub
What an orchestrated gag

Don’t ever let anyone rain on your parade
At least you still have pockets
Say goodbye to whatever’s meant to b

If you lop off the bottom of this poem
It too would become a pair of jorts
Just another way to leave my legs ajar

I know you’re tired of this parade
Broken promises surrounding all the seasons 
Too conditioned to believe in summer

Jeans only baggy or snug
Joy only begged or sung
Certain of at least a little rain


A piece from Sweat. In Sweat, readers are treated to thirty-seven poems, one for every Celsius degree of normal body temperature. It’s a collection centered around the experience of aging, trying to accept the things we can’t control, and the role holding plays in our lives.

Learn more at