My brothers and I, sat on the front porch,
as cool sweat beads trickled
from our foreheads
to the bottom of our chins.

My mother swatted
the screen door open.
She stood, with the hem of her pink apron drenched
in flour, looking like the neighborhood Betty Crocker.
She was holding three bomb
pops for three darkly
tanned children.

We ripped off the parchment,
revealing the frozen crystal
beads latching on to each pop.
We looked at each other
as we concealed our childish snickers,
and on the count of three
we started our favorite competition.
We began licking our pops
Like dogs lapping
water on a hot day.

Twenty licks in, my tongue,
started to lose speed,
and my world, temporarily,
played
in slow
motion
and I was left with a throbbing pain in the middle of my head.

My pop was almost gone,
When I licked it so hard
it did a somersault
in mid air until it reached
the cement ground
and formed a patriotic puddle
around my feet.

We looked at each other,
faces stained with blue raspberry artificial flavoring,
as our boisterous laughter filled the air.