Barefoot

                  The incandescent asphalt fuming in the boiling sun,

            As you imprint the light-hearted weight of your whole body

                             On its searing coarse surface, barefoot.

                 It stings almost like that hapless bee you accidentally

                                          Trod on the other day.

                                The village rests in a quiet busy life.

                           Balancing on your heels, the most callous

                         Bundles of your skin cells, you carefully pick

                                           A patch devoid of glass,

             Gravel and crushed stone, and finally, make your next step.

              And another. But the asphalt is burning beneath your feet,

                          Penetrating through your pores, up and up,

                      Through your calves, your thighs, your stomach,

                                         Past the lungs and larynx

                           Into the brain. It bites like a winter frost—

                         You don't want to lick it, or your tongue will

                                             Stick to it for good.

                      So you speed up, disregarding the gravel fangs,

                            The bursts of a tickling pang echoing

                                  In the corridors of your mind.

                            The intricate plexuses of your nerves,

                                       Much like Venice's canals,

                             Only billions of times more complex,

                                   Diligently relay the signals

                   Into your thalamus or wherever else pain travels.

                                            This is summer.

                A few more meters, and you finally reach the green

                       Sea of grass. Your voluntary trial is over.

                         You sprint into the house. Hey, Mom,

                              What's for dinner? I'm starving!

                      Look at you, kiddo! Your hands, your face—

                        All covered in dirt, you little Grime-man!

                      Ah, Mother, you should have seen my soles!

                          (You should have seen the other guy!)

                          The dark-gray tar-like substance clung

                       To your heels as if they were its last resort,

                                      A naked-skin sanctuary.

                          My soles and the asphalt are soulmates,

                                  You think, smiling to yourself,

                                             Tired and happy.