Asphalt Skin

I remember that day we ran in the rain. The asphalt shined in the light downpour. It formed puddles that looked like Dawn detergent had been poured in it--rainbow iridescent.

The concrete was toasty beneath our feet and the rain caressed our skin. It didn't feel like running in the rain; it felt like good childhood memories one drop at a time, each drop poignant against skin--innocence before sin.

At the time it seemed like a mad, wild idea.

Like something children do, and in our minds we weren't children as we were, although deep in the recesses of our sinewy ribs we knew childhood was over.

"Let's run in it!" I said.

And we rolled our jeans up to our gawky knees and barefoot we ran through our youth. I wore my navy blue shirt--three-quarters sleeve with a vertical ribbing to it. One of my favorites.

The asphalt was a quarter hot and our feet grew black on our soles as we laughed with a final purity.

After our mouths moved like joy in our rain-drenched-skin boys called at us--

We thought that was funny then.