Sweat
runs rivers down
the planes of my face
drip dropping
to the asphalt
and sizzling there;

I wonder if it's true
that I could fry an egg
on the tarry New York sidewalk
melting under my feet

I think I'd like to try
I think I'd also prefer to be that egg
in the cool air of aisle 9
where someone will pick it up
and take it home
and make pancakes
laughing
with the person they love