the mid-afternoon sun hangs
like a bulb from a ceiling
and the earth is hot—
searing
grass
sidewalks
bus stop benches
thank God for the corner store:
three hundred square feet of shade
and frosted confections
a roadside oasis
half hidden behind
peeling paint
and
a rusted screen door
bikes dropped by the stoop
piggy-bank budgets counted in palms
a lineup of kids—
cheeks flushed—
waiting for
freezies
for a quarter
the floorboards creak
an old portable fan
droning beside the checkout
grown-ups buying
scratch cards
and cigarettes
by the carton
outside—
a lawless bunch of middle-schoolers
free for the summer
trading couch-cushion fortunes
for
one-cent candy
and sodas
that put holes in our teeth
we refuel on sugar
wipe sweat
from our brows
then hop back onto
bicycle-seat saddles
and ride—
through the rippling mirage
spilling up from the blacktop
the streets
desperately exhaling
under our tires
blissfully unaware
of every reason
to slow down
our fresh eyes see only
the adventures ahead:
hopscotch
in the driveway
ghost stories
in the basement
goodnight kisses
in the glow
of a moth-riddled streetlamp
we still wonder
why our parents say
time goes by too fast
we can fit
a thousand firsts
into the span
of a summer afternoon
but now
the corner store is shuttered
moss creeping
along the roof shingles
and it’s almost as if
the past never happened
here at all
except for—
the patter of footsteps
the faint smell of sugar
the muscle memory
of sliding open
a cooler door
echoes across time
moments not fully
made memories
something about late July
calls me back
as if it’s all there waiting
behind a thin white curtain
and I can see through
if I squint hard enough
Danielle is a poet and writer based in Edmonton, Alberta. Her work has appeared in Cathexis Northwest Press, The Closed Eye Open, and Out at Sea: A Four Tulips Anthology, among other publications. She only swims in the deep end of emotion.
