'fifty nine

San Joaquin sidewalk

at ten remembers

five o’clock’s heat.

warns my feet,

stay off the blacktop.

The turf beside it

lightly tickles my soles,

until I step on

a random sticker

in a patch of bur weed.

The sprinklers are going

so I go back on the sidewalk.

The cool wet concrete

soothes the sting.

There’s a mockingbird

in an elm tree across

the street singing

his version of the afternoon

ice cream truck jingle.

No ice cream tonight,

I’d gladly turn the handle,

but slices of ice cold

watermelon will do.

We can shriek and spit

black seeds at each other.

And maybe we can sneak

a slice of some leftover

chocolate pie.

Out in the darkness

away from the house

we lie back on the grass

and look for the red winking

wing lights of airplanes

heading east.

And sometimes,

if we’re lucky, we track

the tiny white speck

of Sputnik as it

crosses the sky.