Heatwave

It’s hot like legs stuck to the seat of the car

like baby hairs sponged to the back of your neck

like check the forecast, is it going to be like this all week?

It’s hot like popsicle after popsicle and still sweating like a gutter.

One summer our neighbor’s fridge broke and we had to carry all the food away.

Imagine us, nine years old, hauling gallons of milk across parched yards

asking our parents if we had any room for these eggs, this jar of jam.

We didn’t save the ice cream

but instead ate it right there in the driveway

with the chalk drawings

and the water guns

and the basketball that was losing its air.