120 in Death Valley.
98 in Brooklyn.
Ice cream stick in my hand.
A glob of vanilla falls on my foot.
Cold spreads on my skin
Like frost from a hole in an Inuit's boot
Cold, but not close to zero in winter.
And then the cold melts above freezing.
A dog looks at the ice slime
His tongue loos over his teeth
His eyes glazed with desire.
To lick my foot.
I offer him a taste.
His lap is quicker than his owner.
A taste of paradise is worth the jerk of a chain.
If a dog could have winked then this one would have.
Because sometimes a dog's friend is a man with ice cream on his foot.
Far from Death Valley
120
Twenty miles away from ice cream.
