Ten Weeks

Summer: 2 ½ months of damp-sponged days
pasted like Green Stamps into savings books.
Amy walks ahead, sandals smacking,
as we cut a diagonal path
through browned backyards and waxy hedges.
A stringy towel thrown
over my shoulder, sneakers still damp
from drying, tongues out,
on the porch all night.
Against the walls of the deserted junior high,
water from the sprinklers beats
Chicka Chicka Chicka.
The cheeks of Amy’s bottom glow
like crescent moons above
her tanned legs. We slip behind
the low-slung factories
where men in coveralls
lean against metal doors,
tongues out, calling,
Chica! Chica! Chica!
Then, up a long hill to the community pool;
a chlorine haze hovers over the water,
the high dive a white walkway into the sky.
On the sloped concrete,
Amy puts her towel right next to mine.
She stretches, smiles, tongue out,
her teeth like Chicklets, Chicklets, Chicklets.

Published in Best New AZ Poems

Photo by Joe Pizzio on Unsplash