Peach juice trickles down
fingers,
to knuckles,
to wrists
to elbows
on a sweltering
Northwest Indiana
day. The steel in the air
suffocates—asthma
squeezing
can hardly breathe.
Aluminum Tupperware
tumblers’ sugar cracks
teeth in ice tea. Even
The Magician’s
Nephew cannot
distract—
Mustache of sweat,
the Lake with its diapers
full of shit
two miles
away, and the library
the same distance. Best to lie
here—try not to move. We
could ride our bikes,
but Hector
at the end
of the cul-de-sac
has air conditioning,
a huge television,
MTV and a penchant
for taking us all in. You do not ask questions when the sweat finally dries in itchy, ropy strings and the cucumber sandwiches with cream cheese, cool as a swimming pool, make you feel safe for now.