In the hot heat of

summer’s suffocating sigh,

Sun is a blinding lemon

that catches on sunglasses

and makes sidewalks sparkle.

Divine hand

squeezes the fruit,

sending sour juice

dribbling down into trees

and coalescing into dreams. 

 

Behind a cardboard stand

is a girl in a white dress

covered in frills

that flirt with the air.

Hot air wiggles and swirls

the faces of passerby

while she sells lemonade

by the curb.

Sun sizzles on her black hair

like it’s a frying pan

at an old-school diner.

The heat is diner-like and,

if she squints,

Sun is a yellow egg,

sunny-side up on the grill.

 

Sizzling sunny-side girl

cannot sell lemonade.

A cent a cup

but still not a soul glances

from the street

as egg girl melts

into the heat.

 

Man passes by under shade

and throws shade she’s sure

is meant to be helpful;

tells her the only yellow

that is “mainstream”

is the yellow in her skin.

Tears stream down her hot face

because oh, she’s known.

But maybe a part of her held hope

that some kind soul would stay

and offer sugar.