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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