O Nightly Thoughts

I sweat and I sweat and I sweat,
stinking like a corpse in an African sun.
This is the first poem I've written in months,

and it comes back to sweating,
sweating in a faded Beatles shirt.
You can barely see McCartney's face,

and Lennon's the ghost of a stain by now.
I hate summer nights.
The days, at least, are attractive and gay,

giving this coastal town dignity;
in the hot light of summer McDonald's is France, almost.
The nights are repellant and aggressive.

Beside my bed is a Kindle
with an H. Rider Haggard in it, 20% read.
I don't know if I can be bothered to read.