On the days when the sun was our enemy,
the heat congealed
to the consistency of idleness,
the shade just a darkened oven,
forsaking baseballs and water balloons,
we did nothing and said even less,
for it wasn't worth the effort of speaking;
we listened to the buzz of the sun
and the sizzle of our skin
and these were our summers.

Then the music box melodies would dance
through the heat, beckoning,
and we ran and ran until we found that
ice cream truck trudging through the heat
like it's tires were melted
(and they probably were);
our salvation was shaped like
firecrackers and fudgecicles.

We'd race to finish it before the sun would,
trying to lick it down to the sticks;
braving brain freeze and numb tongues
we'd savor every drop of that frozen childhood
as quick as we could, but it was impossible.
No matter how fast we ate,
the sun ate faster,
and our childhood always melted into our hands.

It never did last long in that summer heat.

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