Watch It Kid

Private Summer

You feel like the lawn sprinkler

that summer of 1978

when the sun brought out Cherokee fantasies 

by the color of my

skin.

Not lily white; 

not lined with the straps of my

bikini.

But an electric spray

straight up.

A shocking hit

right there.

The sun is flaming above me;

all the neighbors say

“Watch it kid; you’re gonna fry”.

I pace

back to you,

away,

back;

darting into 

the chilling refreshment

of your

embrace.

Penny René