A SUMMER DAY
It was a blistering summer day
when all those who shivered
complaints against temperatures
as low as cabin-fever moods
now complain the scorching heat
as they seek the unctuous cool caves
of chirping air conditioned rooms.
An old man in a heavy, ragged coat
toppled spinelessly to the pavement
like a dip of ice cream off a cone.
He lay there as still as
the cement that sizzled
like a frying pan on an open fire.
People stepped aside as they dashed by
rushing off in a veering frenzy
to whatever goals they had to achieve
no matter what calculated aggression
or insidious hypocrisy they had to use.
Then a little girl clutching her mother’s hand
pulled back from her mother’s end run.
“Look, Mommy, that man!”
she exclaimed with the force of fireworks,
“We don’t have time, Honey,” her mother
replied with straitjacket practicality.
“But, Mommy, we were taught to stop
even if there is no ditch,
even if a friend has only broken her doll,”
the little girl argued
with the practicality of gospel learning.
So the woman bent down and
felt the man’s pulse beating
as slowly as the beads of sweat
that inched down his truant face.
Then she went to a pay phone
and with the finger she used
to point the way to her daughter
she dialed 911.
The passersby slowed down
for a gawking moment
of plastic curiosity,
then accelerated as though
responding to the spit of a starting gun
in a marathon race.
The woman and her daughter stayed
until the ambulance screeched to the curb
like a baseball player sliding into second.
After the ambulance rolled off in siren speed
the mother bent down with kinetic joy
and hugged her daughter –
the only warmth on that summer street
was a mother’s love
for her child who had led the way.
It was a blistering summer day
when all those who shivered
complaints against temperatures
as low as cabin-fever moods
now complain the scorching heat
as they seek the unctuous cool caves
of chirping air conditioned rooms.
An old man in a heavy, ragged coat
toppled spinelessly to the pavement
like a dip of ice cream off a cone.
He lay there as still as
the cement that sizzled
like a frying pan on an open fire.
People stepped aside as they dashed by
rushing off in a veering frenzy
to whatever goals they had to achieve
no matter what calculated aggression
or insidious hypocrisy they had to use.
Then a little girl clutching her mother’s hand
pulled back from her mother’s end run.
“Look, Mommy, that man!”
she exclaimed with the force of fireworks,
“We don’t have time, Honey,” her mother
replied with straitjacket practicality.
“But, Mommy, we were taught to stop
even if there is no ditch,
even if a friend has only broken her doll,”
the little girl argued
with the practicality of gospel learning.
So the woman bent down and
felt the man’s pulse beating
as slowly as the beads of sweat
that inched down his truant face.
Then she went to a pay phone
and with the finger she used
to point the way to her daughter
she dialed 911.
The passersby slowed down
for a gawking moment
of plastic curiosity,
then accelerated as though
responding to the spit of a starting gun
in a marathon race.
The woman and her daughter stayed
until the ambulance screeched to the curb
like a baseball player sliding into second.
After the ambulance rolled off in siren speed
the mother bent down with kinetic joy
and hugged her daughter –
the only warmth on that summer street
was a mother’s love
for her child who had led the way.
