Alice

17

some days
the children race, holding
vibrant cherry popsicles
cold sweetness dripping down their fingers
into sticky puddles on the sidewalk

other days
the heat chokes the earth in a
fire blanket

nobody outside except
the old lady who
sits on the porch all afternoon
a bundle of tattered quilts and wrinkled lines somebody
stuck to a rocking chair,
a squeaky metronome marking the slow rhythm of
each second

the old lady who
squints impatiently at the passing driver as he spurs on
his fiery steeds,
their manes slick with sweat
their hooves stirring up dust clouds on sky blue roads
their backs burdened by a chariot always heavier

in summer