I'll steal a drop of coolness from your glass
if I'm allowed. The evening breeze is slack.
This heat's a winding cloth; I'm bound like grass
in concrete, not quite growing through a crack. 
There's little greenness in its stalks, its sap
is nearly gone, it fades to straw. I fear
I'm dried and dull as that, I'll likely snap
if pulled too hard by excess liquid cheer.
I've only few steps left before defeat;
my right foot moves but cannot make good time.
But you are fresh despite the wretched heat,
all moist resiliency while my thirst climbs.
So just a drop, no more, I'll squeeze from you
tonight, and wish tomorrow cooler too.













     Able Muse