The Lime Popsicle

Broiling sun with muggy air

Filled our limbs with torpor

And drenched our foreheads with sweat.

We held thumbs over the end of the garden hose

And sprayed cold water over us until we squealed,

But were hot again in minutes.

We rode bikes to the brook.

Stifling heat baked our feet

And glued hair to backs of our necks.

We dabbled feet and waded in the chilly creek.

We wanted deeper water so we could swim.

Riding on to the corner store

Burning roadside gravel forged toes to leather

And pasted fingers to clammy handlebars

As we pushed and panted up hill,

Then made it to the cool and shady shop.

Out of breath we sat, backs against the picnic table,

But caught only languid heavy breath

While sweat dripped into our eyes and drizzled down tanned legs.

We talked of what icy treat a nickel could buy.

We opened the door—a jangling bell announced us.

Our mouths watered as we opened the cooler.

Frosted air with restoring power engulfed our faces.

Would it be an ice cream sandwich? A chocolate-covered ice-cream-bar?

We chose lime popsicles and handed over our nickels.

Peeling back polka-dot paper on the double-stick frozen slush,

The melting and licking began.

Heavenly cold green dribbled down sticks, our hands, our chins.

The taste was luscious, zesty, sour-sweet all at once.