Under a June Sun
My boyish ambition was never to fry an egg
certainly not on the sidewalk
Merely for a glimpse
of chaste apricot braids and beckoning tartan
I don't know why I went along with Susanna.
Maybe it was the June sun
hot but aloof
suggesting but never giving
giving what summer must surely bring
She cracked it
the egg
letting white mingle with yolk
running over the concrete in all its gooey glory
A thin heat mirage
tentatively hovered
Its shimmer gave our surroundings a new shifting identity
Susanna was shifting
Her identity as inconstant as her skirts' ever changing shades of plaid
So perhaps that's why she touched me
