August in this city

"...Day after day, day after day,
We stuck, nor breath nor motion;
As idle as a painted ship
Upon a painted ocean..."

Coleridge had in mind somewhere else,
and a situation more immediately dire (and Albatross-specific),
than long stretches of summer days in New York.

I would argue though,
for those stuck here,
in the deep hot heart of the summer,
can feel shellac-still too.


C.