“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