HOT DIGGITY

What happens here in summer is not much more than
nothing. You sit in the shade on a bench drinking
water. Maybe there's an ocean nearby, or a lake.
In any case, the asphalt feels like a tarmac.

People walk slowly but do not stop. Finally a
young girl in jeans pauses before the bench,
spots a quadrant of bare concrete, and is soon
squatting on the sidewalk with a piece of chalk.

"You smell like hot fudge," she writes.

And below it, "I AM hot fudge."

That is all; she is done; there she goes.



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