I think I'm ready for summer

Independence

For city kids, July means scorching feet
on blackened roofs. We spend our sunburnt nights
above a world where mica glitters streets
and Hudson River pyros spray their lights
in shots of gaiety. We squish boy-girl
in wooden seats and sizzle big-kid sips
of vodka Pop Rocks ‘til our stomachs twirl.
A swish from teeth to tongue will tingle lips
each time the pinwheel blasts light up the sky,
our eyeballs tracing figure eights inside
their sockets; soon we’re flying semi-high.
We knock our knees and try to take in stride
the fizzy booze and crackling bursts of flare,
to save the hiccup for the loudest spark,
to hide hot ears in laps or nests of hair,
until the neon fades away to dark.