Recording rancid rants in roasting rage

I fear I melt

Like an enormous unwanted ice cream

Dripping sweat

Beyond the ken of tissues or towels

Stewing in the juice

Of exertion

Head lifted to hunt for the breeze

Mechanically engineered from above

Down air ducts

Tucked away unseen

Useless tubes that are ineffectual

Because the doors to the balcony are open

Here in this airless café

The air conditioner wrestles

To cool all of Malta

Instead of hot melting me

I sit outraged

That steaming helps vegetables

Keep fresh and crisp

But reduces me to a sodden mass

Baked outside

Beaten within

The doors are automatic

Beyond my ability to close

Like much of life

We have very little control

Except to record our vitriol

Our objections to it all

To sit in silent sullen sogginess

Recording rancid rants in roasting rage