You begin to smell it everywhere— the burn like sugar gone past the candy stage in a pan. And then rubber tires soften against the curb. You could make a furrow in the road's asphalt as though it were a cake top spread with buttercream. Metal pins curve into glossy punctuation marks. Every exposed mirror empties its pocket of frozen water. Stop signs fuse red, green, and yellow. If all of us jumped into a public pool, we'd bob like eggs heated through to our jammy centers, crying out for an ice bath.
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.
