Monday, August 29, 2011

“Frying Eggs”

The air carries ripples   
a Saran Wrap view   
of my world   
pulling tight off the rooftops   
My Keds melt and ooze   
as I tiptoe across the blacktop   
jumping over bubbles that pop in the road   
My hair plasters against my head   
a blonde Pixie helmet   
I envy the crew cuts sported by the boys   
We stand in a semicircle   
smudging sweat from smarting eyes   
watching in wonder   
Dad cracks the egg   
one-handed like a master chef   
he doesn’t break the yoke   
the edges turn white against the tar   
I lean closer   
 hand resting on Dad’s shoulder   
for a better view   
“See,” I challenged my ring of doubters   
“It is hot enough to fry an egg!”   

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

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