In train cars, beach-bound city folk.
On corn cobs, butter.
At bedtime, fans.
Before dawn, birdsong.
For breakfast, birthday cake.
Under fingernails, cherry juice.
On shoulders, arms, legs, and bellies, still more sunscreen.
Between sidewalk bricks, grass.
On sloping floorboards, sand.
In my mom’s garden, four kinds of mint.
On upper lips, beads of sweat.
On water glasses, beads of condensation.
In the freezer, ice cream.
In garden-bed dust baths, chickens.
On the drying rack, rash guards.
Under tender city feet, driveway stones.
On bellies, watermelon juice.
In hair, strands of gold.
On skinny sticks, marshmallows.
In the darkness, fireflies.